/•    •  '•  • 


IRON  CITY 


IRON     CITY 


BY 

M.  H.  HEDGES 


BONI   AND    LIVERIGHT 
NEW  YORK  1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 

BONI   &  LlVERIGHT,   INC. 


Printed  in  the  U.S.A. 


TO 
RANDOLPH     BOURNE 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

PROLOGUE  n 

I.  AN  AMERICAN  CITY 15 

II.  JOHN  COSMUS,  STUDENT  OF  SOCIETY  ...  23 

III.  SARAH 35 

IV.  MARGARET 50 

V.  CRANDON  HILL  COLLEGE  FACULTY      ...  64 

VI.  AN  AMERICAN  INDUSTRY 70 

VII.  THE  SILL  FAMILY 78 

VIII.  THE  OUTCAST 90 

IX.  ON  THE  WORLD  HORIZON 96 

X.  INFLAMMABLE  YOUTH 107 

XI.  RAYMOND  AND  MARGARET 119 

XII.  SUBSTANTIAL  CITIZENS 128 

XIII.  FAMILY  COUNCILS 143 

XIV.  MISUNDERSTANDINGS 152 

XV.  A  CONFERENCE  OF  RACES 163 

XVI.  THE  WEDDING 174 

XVII.  THE  ANARCH 185 

XVIII.  PROFESSOR  EZRA  KIMBARK 195 

XIX.  MARGARET'S  FATHER 207 

XX.  IRON  CITY'S  CITIZENS'  ALLIANCE  .  .  .  218 

XXI.  THE  STRIKE 226 

XXII.  PASSION'S  WAKE 240 

XXIII.  A  LETTER  FROM  FRANCE 253 

XXIV.  THE  GENTEEL  TRADITION 263 

XXV.  THE  HAUNTED  WOOD 275 

XXVI.  BONDS  OF  CLASS 288 

XXVII.  Two  FUNERALS 297 

XXVIII.  UNDERSTANDINGS 302 

XXIX.  INTO  WHOSE  HAND 312 

vii 


PREFACE 

I  have  endeavored  to  depict  the  unspiritual  side  of 
American  life  in  the  hope  that  when  the  details  of  the 
picture  are  assembled  we  shall  see  how  far  we  have 
departed  from  our  great  tradition,  and  how  at  vari 
ance  we  are  to  our  unconscious  life. 

The  characters  in  this  novel  are  composite  portraits 
drawn  from  many  diverse  sources  and  should  be  read 
in  that  light  only. 


IRON   CITY 


PROLOGUE 

T  ATE  afternoon  of  a  summer's  day  in  a  midwest- 
•*— '  ern  state.  A  young  man,  not  over-tall,  but 
muscular,  trudged  along  a  telephone  line  that  swept 
triumphantly  in  stately  strides  down  the  dusty  road 
as  far  as  he  could  see.  The  young  man  was  weary; 
his  feet  dragged.  He  lifted  himself  heavily  up  his 
next  post,  and  when  he  had  crawled  through  the  ten 
tiers  of  wires  and  perched  himself  upon  the  last  cross. 
piece  at  a  height  of  forty  feet,  he  sighed  and  fell  into 
a  position  of  relaxation. 

The  country  swooned  into  the  arms  of  the  harvest. 
As  far  as  he  could  see  there  were  fields  of  grain,  gold 
beneath  the  sun,  peaceful,  rich;  and  waving  corn  mel 
lowing  into  fruitage.  Into  the  distance,  the  fields 
stretched  in  the  drowsy  afternoon  sun,  a  picture  of 
bursting  wealth;  heavily  uddered  cows  browsed  be 
neath  the  trees;  he  caught  the  hum  of  insects  from 
clover  at  the  roadside;  chickens  cackled;  hogs  grunted 
from  the  farmyard  a  stone's  throw  beyond.,  He  was 
lazily  conscious  of  the  white  house  behind  the  fruited 
orchard,  the  ample  barn,  the  windmill,  the  engine 
shed,  the  dairy  house  near  the  spring.  He  saw  beyond, 
too,  a  neat  school  house,  set  well  back  from  the  road 
near  a  brook.  The  sight  of  all  this  wealth  and  corn- 
it 


12  PROLOGUE 

fort  was  very  familiar  to  him  and  very  common 
place. 

But  as  he  paused,  resting,  the  imagination  aroused 
by  the  play  of  sunlight  on  all  that  rural  beauty 
lifted  fields,  cattle,  houses  into  the  high  light  of 
understanding.  He  revived,  his  nostrils  were  taut 
with  deep  breaths,  he  stretched  out  his  arms  in  a 
gesture  of  rapturous  submission.  For  a  moment 
road,  fields,  barnyard,  house,  school  building  burst 
upon  his  mind  in  a  flood  of  understanding,  as  Amer 
ica,  his  country. 

Then  incisively  there  cut  across  his  revery  the  mem 
ory  of  the  camp  of  shacks  he  had  left  four  hours 
before  at  noon.  The  odor  of  long-used,  unwashed 
clothes,  of  garbage,  of  human  waste,  of  tobacco,  smote 
him  shudderingly,  even  in  recollection.  He  remem 
bered  with  a  touch  of  aversion  the  row  of  thin,  low 
wooden  buildings,  roofed  with  tar  paper.  The  black- 
eyed  passionate  dagos,  moody  and  suspicious,  curs 
ing,  fighting,  drinking,  singing,  lazy  and  repellent, 
handsome  and  potential ;  these  seemed  to  intrude  upon 
the  countryside  with  a  note  at  once  awesome  and 
discordant. 

Who  had  brought  them  here? 

The  eyes  of  the  young  man  followed  the  River  of 
Wires  as  they  traveled  over  the  striding  poles  to  the 
horizon's  rim.  Down  the  road  to  the  edge  of  Dyer's 
place,  and  beyond  they  went;  when  the  road  turned, 
they  turned;  where  the  road  crossed  the  river  labori 
ously  by  bridge,  they  leaped ;  where  the  road  mounted 
the  hill,  they  climbed.  On,  on  over  the  fields,  river, 
through  woods,  to  glittering  cities,  on,  on,  on. 

He  did  not  have  it  in  his  heart  to  condemn  the 
energy  that  had  brought  the  Italians  here  to  build  the 


PROLOGUE  13 

line.  What  would  the  country  be  to  him  without  the 
River  of  Wires?  How  it  glistened  in  the  sunshine! 
How  it  sang  in  the  breeze!  How  it  went  on  inter 
minably!  It  goldened,  as  nothing  else  goldened,  the 
commonplace  countryside.  It  reached  out  its  visible 
voice  to  all  the  beautiful  capitals  of  the  world,  to 
Chicago,  San  Francisco,  New  York,  Moscow,  London, 
Paris,  Rome,  Bombay — the  cities,  the  regal  proud 
cities.  The  young  man,  though  tired,  never  seemed 
alone  when  he  worked  along  the  great  River  of  Wires. 
He  went  with  it  in  his  mind  across  field  and  stream. 
He  pictured  great  avenues  of  the  cities!  He  visioned 
the  palaces !  He  mingled  with  the  crowds !  He  sank 
himself  in  a  great  work  there!  He  found  minds  like 
his  own,  keen,  hungering,  visioning. 

"God!"  he  said  audibly.  "The  world  comes  to  me 
on  those  wires !"  Suddenly  he  had  an  idea.  He  ran 
quickly  down  the  pole  to  his  kit  of  tools  below.  He 
selected  a  line-telephone,  such  as  linesmen  use  in  tap 
ping  wires.  His  nimble  fingers  soon  had  it  adjusted 
at  the  top  of  the  pole  to  the  continental  wire.  He 
would  listen  to  the  world  talk.  First  he  heard  a 
strange  buzzing,  then,  very  clearly,  the  voices  of  two 
men  conversing. 

"This  is  Collins  in  New  York,"  one  was  saying. 

"Hello,  Collins,"  the  other  voice  answered.  "I  am 
at  the  Auditorium  in  Chicago.  Did  you  get  my  man  ?" 

"No,  I  didn't,"  the  first  voice  came  again.  "I  don't 
know  of  a  man  in  the  world  just  now  who  can  fill 
that  job.  Twenty-five  thousand  dollar  brains  are 
scarce,  you  know." 

A  light  came  suddenly  into  the  young  man's  face. 
He  disconnected  the  apparatus,  and  sat  thoughtfully 
for  many  minutes  looking  out  over  the  fields ;  then  he 


14  PROLOGUE 

climbed  down  the  pole  and  picked  up  his  tools.  He 
untied  no  more  wires  that  day,  nor  thereafter.  He 
went  back  to  the  ill-smelling  camp,  past  the  dago 
shacks,  past  their  occupants, — his  comrades, — to  the 
foreman's  office. 

"I  want  my  time,"  he  said  simply. 

"Why,  John  Cosmus,  I  hate  to  lose  you,"  exclaimed 
the  bluff  boss.  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  am  going  to  college,  and  become  a  twenty-five 
thousand  dollar  brain." 

The  foreman  did  not  laugh.  "Johnny,  my  boy," 
he  said,  "you've  got  the  right  idea." 

He  paid  the  young  man,  and  watched  him  go  slow 
ly  up  the  hill  toward  the  town. 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  lost  my  best  climber  there," 
he  said  softly. 

But  Cosmus  went  on  singing.  At  the  top  of  the 
hill  he  paused  and  looked  back.  He  saw  the  blue 
smoke  curling  from  the  shacks;  he  saw  the  swoon 
ing  fields,  and  beyond  the  River  of  Wires,  shining — 
on,  on  to  the  proud  cities,  and  further  through  his 
dreams. 


CHAPTER  I 

"1"X7"HEN  Jones  &  Jones,  merchants  of  Iron  City, 
*  '  hung  out  their  flag  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  the 
event  was  of  civic  magnitude.  The  city  editor  of  the 
Republic-Despatch  gave  one  column  front  to  the  hap 
pening,  for  Jones  &  Jones  had  been  in  business  in  the 
same  building  for  forty-two  years,  and  every  year 
had  hung  out  at  precisely  the  same  hour  the  same 
identical  flag.  Moreover,  it  had  been  recorded  that 
with  Jones  &  Jones  was  an  eminent  clerk,  who  had 
served  the  firm  for  thirty-two  years  at  a  salary  of 
$75  a  month,  who  owned  a  Ford  automobile,  and  still 
had  forebears  in  New  England.  Iron  City  boasted  at 
least  one  eminent  maid ;  she  lived  with  the  respectable 
Taylor  family  and  was  a  heavy  tax-payer,  for  she 
owned  three  houses  and  lots.  And  among  the  other 
notables  there  was  also  Thomas  J.  Cruisenbarry,  emi 
nent  sexton  of  the  First  Congregational  Church.  He 
was  the  third  generation  of  Cruisenbarry  to  have  cus 
tody  of  the  city  cemetery.  His  father  before  him  had 
served  the  city  thirty  years,  and  at  his  death  had 
received  formal  tribute  from  the  city  council  for  his 
services,  as  had  his  father,  in  turn,  before  him.  Cruis 
enbarry  III,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  family's  high 
services,  received  one  hundred  dollars  a  month,  an 
increase  of  twenty-five  dollars  over  the  salary  of  his 
father.  No  other  facts  reveal  so  clearly  the  stiffness 
and  inertia  that  imperceptibly  was  beginning  to  creep 

15 


16  IRON  CITY 

numbingly  over  the  foundation  stratum  of  this  pro 
gressive  American  city. 

Outwardly  Iron  City  gave  no  evidence  of  the  stiff 
ness  of  its  joints.     To  the  sallow  eye  of  the  British 
traveler,  who  once  had  stopped  in  the  city  and  had 
telegraphed  back  to  his  London  journal,  Iron  City  was 
"new  and  uncouth."     It  had  its  "loop"  district,  built 
in  the  form  of  crossed  S's,  in  which  were  congested 
all  the  shops,  banks,  hotels,  hospitals  and  offices  for  a 
city  of  thirty  thousand.     Bass  River,  cutting  trans 
versely  the  business  section,  freshened  this  quarter  and 
furnished  water  power  for  numerous  mills.     Nothing 
was  done  to  beautify  the  stream ;  facing  the  banks  were 
back  stoops  and  unsightly  factories.     The  city  park, 
containing  a  statue  of  the  donor,  was  up  town,  not 
along  the  river.     The  residences  lay  further  to  west 
and  east,  on  the  high  bluffs  and  flats  beyond.     True, 
along  the  Front  road  a  few  mansions  had  arisen  and 
the   country  club  with  golf  links   spread   its   august 
length  across  one  of  these  wooded  knolls.    Of  course, 
these  residence  districts  were  more  pretentious  than 
the  shops  down  town.    These  were  small,  and  still  did 
business,  as  Jones  &  Jones  did,  on  a  personal  basis. 
Strictly  speaking,   there  were   few  firms,   no  corpo 
rations.    It  was  Jones's  store,  or  Dailey's  store.    Most 
of  the  upper  circle  of  Iron  City  had  charge  accounts 
at  Marshall  Field's  and  at  Carson's,  some  hundreds  of 
miles  distant,  and  many  of  the  middle  class  shopped 
from  large,  fat  catalogues  of  mail  order  houses.    But 
the  local  shops  did  not  suffer.     The  upper  circle  was 
small,  and  proprietors  knew  well  how  to  cater  to  the 
trade  of  the  workers.     They  resented  far  more  the 
competition  of  Woolworth's  Ten  Cent  Store,  which 
had  set  up  its  flaming  front  some  ten  years  before. 


IRON  CITY  17 

In  spite  of  these  competitors,  the  shops  were  thriv 
ing  as  the  banks  testified.  There  were  four  banks  in 
Iron  City,  all  bulging  at  the  sides.  And  if  one  were 
looking  for  a  metaphor  to  describe  this  American 
town  he  could  find  none  more  accurate  than  the  hack 
neyed  "bee-hive." 

Iron  City  was  a  hive.  The  owners  of  the  shops 
were  not  at  all  aware  of  the  city's  importance.  But 
the  seven  millionaires,  who  sat  well  back  in  the  shadow 
of  community  affairs,  or  who  perceived  its  life  through 
beveled  glass  of  private  office  or  limousine,  knew  that 
Iron  City  was  on  the  map. 

These  seven  millionaires  were  not  all  Iron  City 
"boys,"  but  most  of  them  were,  and  they  were  proud 
that  seven  nationally  advertised  industries  had  their 
home  offices  in  Iron  City,  and  that  four  continental 
railroads  were  kept  busy  carrying  Iron  City  products 
to  Bombay  and  Damascus,  as  well  as  to  Oklahoma 
City  and  Portland,  Maine.  These  captains  of  industry 
were  self-made;  and  to  the  inhabitants  they  were  still 
Tom  and  Joe.  But  though  they  did  not  live  wholly 
apart,  they  evinced  little  real  desire  to  mingle  closely 
with  Iron  City  life.  They  contributed  money  to  the 
new  Y.M.C.A.  building, — and  spent  their  winters  with 
their  business.  Iron  City  remained  a  middle  class 
town  although  no  inhabitant  would  listen  to  its  being 
called  middle-class.  There  were  no  poor,  no  slums. 
There  was  no  vice,  no  legalized  home  of  prostitution 
in  all  Iron  City,  though  the  curse  of  Babylon  stalked 
the  streets.  After  all,  its  sin  was  not  so  much  the  sin 
of  ancient  Nineveh  or  Tyre  as  the  sin  of  Sybaris, — • 
the  sin  of  being  too  comfortable  and  too  content. 

R.  Sill  and  Son  owned  the  largest  manufactory,  a 
plant  worth  five  million,  which  employed  five  thousand 


i8  IRON  CITY 

men,  mostly  of  alien  birth,  "foreigners."  This  was  a 
manufactory  of  engines ;  and  it  lay  sprawling  out  close 
to  the  "swell"  residence  district  along  the  river  to  the 
north.  Automobiles,  paper,  shoes,  machinery  and 
clothing  were  the  other  premier  products  of  the  City. 
It  was  these  manufacturing  concerns  that  were  fast 
giving  the  town  the  aspect  of  a  metropolis,  were  feed 
ing  it  and  clothing  it,  erecting  its  public  buildings 
and  churches  and  schools,  uniting  it  with  the  great  out 
side  world  beyond  the  turn  of  the  northern  railroads; 
but  it  was  these  same  factories  that  were  giving  Iron 
City  its  one  problem,  turning  its  sabbatical  peace  into 
clamor,  and  reforming,  with  the  thrust  of  a  giant,  the 
entire  social  fabric  of  its  life. 

Factories  to  have  existence  must  have  workers,  and 
workers  could  not  come  from  among  the  ranks  of 
Iron  City's  native  population.  And  so  industries  be 
gan  to  import  workers;  and  the  workers  had  to  live, 
and  finally  they  began  to  trickle  through  the  inter 
stices  of  the  older  population.  A  series  of  importa 
tions  during  a  period  of  thirty  years  had  brought 
over  thirty  alien  races  to  Iron  City.  Twenty-two 
worked  in  the  factory  of  R.  Sill  and  Son  alone.  They 
came  of  necessity,  imperceptibly — dogged,  grave,  gay, 
licentious,  potential,  dreamy,  dirty,  diligent,  lazy,  pa 
triotic — and  they  stayed.  And  when  the  glacier  of  im 
migration  passed,  one  could  find  the  story  of  their 
coming  in  the  strata  of  Iron  City  society. 

One  can  see  the  symbol  of  that  society  in  an  in 
verted  cone.  At  the  apex,  the  foundation  stratum, 
represented  by  merchants  like  Jones  &  Jones,  and 
eminent  clerks  and  sextons,  was  the  thinnest  and 


IRON  CITY  19 

shortest;  it  was  composed  directly  and  purely  of  New 
England  stock.  One  evidence  of  its  Puritan  gen 
esis  was  the  three  well  established  Congregational 
Churches  in  the  city,  and  the  fact  that  the  millionaires 
belonged  to  the  First  Congregational,  and  not  to  St. 
Luke's.  This  Puritan  stock  supplied  all  the  preach 
ers,  teachers  and  most  of  the  big  professional  men  of 
the  community.  It  had  built  Crandon  Hill  College. 
It  was  the  Brahmin  caste,  the  upper  circle,  ringed 
round  by  thirty  alien  peoples.  It  saw  its  light 
gradually  darkened.  The  Blue  Laws  were  broken. 
Baseball  and  moving-drama  became  acceptable  on  Sun 
days.  Through  various  avenues  new  standards  of 
continental  living  began  to  shape  its  youth. 

The  president  of  the  National  Bank  recorded  the 
change  in  standards  in  a  letter  to  the  Republic-Des 
patch. 

Mr.  Editor: 

The  writer  attended  the  "Follies"  given  in  the  as 
sembly  room  of  the  High  School  last  evening.  While 
Longfellow,  Emerson,  Bryant  and  Holmes  looked  on  (and 
perhaps  heard)  from  their  picture  frames  on  the  wall, 
a  very  nice  little  girl  was  allowed  to  sing  a  song  about 
how  her  beau  was  all  right,  except  that  he  didn't  know 
how  to  kiss.  There  were  some  other  songs  about  love 
and  girls  and  kisses.  There  was  no  semblance  of  genu 
ine  talent  or  refinement  in  the  program. 

Puritanism  is  dying  in  Iron  City,  just  as  everywhere, 
but  I  had  not  looked  to  see  the  schools  push  it  so  soon 
into  its  grave.  It  is  gone  with  the  coming  of  "refined 
ragtime,"  and  moving  drama,  and  automobiles. 

And  so,  Mr.  Editor,  the  new  order  comes  to  Iron 
City. 

OBSERVER. 


20  IRON  CITY 

Perhaps  the  President  of  the  National  Bank  was 
not  honest  enough,  or  perhaps  he  did  not  see  that 
the  same  industries  that  filled  his  vaults  with  treasure 
had  brought  the  alien  and  the  new  order  to  his  native 
city.  And  so  the  Puritans  saw  their  influence  wan 
ing;  the  story  was  out  of  their  hands.  R.  Sill,  if  he 
saw,  could  not  turn  back;  the  wheels  of  industry  had  to 
be  kept  going. 

Superimposed  upon  this  ground  of  New  England- 
ers,  were  the  more  ancient  incomers,  the  Welsh,  Eng 
lish,  French,  German  and  Irish.  They,  except  for  a 
greater  moral  liberalism  and  a  sterner  political  con 
servatism,  were  as  much  Americans  as  the  older  in 
habitants.  They  worked  in  linen  mills.  The  French 
and  Irish  supported  the  three  Catholic  churches;  the 
English  and  Welsh  went  to  St.  Luke's,  the  Germans 
to  the  two  Lutheran  churches.  All  these  churches  re 
sented  the  most  recent  comer — the  white,  substantial 
Christian  Science  church.  The  children  of  these  races 
of  the  second  stratum  were  to  all  appearances  thor 
oughly  and  utterly  assimilated.  Superimposed  upon 
this  layer  of  alien  life,  were  the  Scandinavian,  Swiss 
and  Scotch,  to  all  appearances  Americanized ;  on  them 
a  tier  of  Italians,  large,  dynamic,  floating,  but  ever 
present,  though  isolated  from  active  participation  in 
the  affairs  of  the  city.  True,  a  small  church  had  been 
built  for  them  recently,  the  first  mark  of  their  per 
manency.  On  these  strata  were  superimposed,  Greeks, 
Lithuanians,  Austrians  and  Slavs,  scarcely  English 
speaking,  and  wholly  foreign.  The  final  tier  of  the 
cone  placed  there  by  an  exquisite  stroke  of  irony  was 
the  recent  horde  of  American  negroes. 

The  Puritans  had  built  Crandon  Hill  College.  It 
should  have  been  the  chief  agency  for  the  integration 


IRON  CITY  21 

of  the  whole  conglomerate.  It  was  over  a  hundred 
years  old,  rich,  dignified  and  proud.  Among  its  grad 
uates  were  great  editors,  bishops  and  missionaries,  au 
thors,  senators,  congressmen,  and  governors,  poets 
and  hymn  writers,  teachers  and  thinkers.  Its  faculty 
had  a  national  reputation.  The  trustees  were  million 
aires,  brokers  and  insurance  magnates,  in  the  neigh 
boring  metropolis.  By  their  stewardship  in  Iron  City 
itself,  it  was  connected  with  such  well-known  men  as 
P.  O.  Smithkins,  president  of  the  Utility  Company, 
and  Senator  Matt  Tyler.  It  was  the  fine  flower  of 
American  civilization  of  a  generation  back.  Its  stu 
dents  came  from  the  "good"  homes  of  the  city  and 
immediate  vicinity.  Perched  on  a  hill  overlooking 
the  river  near  Guy  Street,  the  thoroughfare  of  "hun- 
yocks,"  not  far  from  the  factory  of  R.  Sill  and  Son, 
it  drew  its  skirts  about  itself  and  shrank  from  all  the 
sordid  life  of  factory  and  immigrant. 

But  with  all  its  Phariseeism,  it  was  the  great  heart 
of  the  city,  lying  still ;  and  it  must  receive  most  of  our 
attention  in  this  little  epic  of  an  American  common 
wealth. 

Iron  City  was  traditionally  though  restrainedly 
proud  of  its  college.  To  tell  the  truth  Iron  City  was 
proud  of  all  its  institutions.  It  extolled  its  Carne 
gie  library,  churches,  public  schools,  Masonic  Temple, 
K.  of  P.  Hall,  banks,  Modern  Woodmen,  National 
Guard,  saloons,  of  which  there  were  fifty,  street  car 
system,  natural  site,  its  city  poet,  who  though  forty 
had  never  voted,  its  baseball  teams,  etc.  It  said  noth 
ing  about  its  trade  unions,  its  industrial  fermentation, 
its  intellectual  poverty,  artistic  barrenness,  and  re 
ligious  sterility. 

Iron  City  was  too  busy  and  too  comfortable  to  face 


22  IRON  CITY 

problems.  It  preferred  to  drift.  It  visibly  had  a  des 
tiny  ;  it  somehow  would  be  carried  through.  To  men 
tion  problems  was  to  "knock"  and  knocking  was  the 
cardinal  sin  in  Iron  City.  The  Commercial  Club,  at 
one  time  seriously  alarmed,  started  secret  propaganda 
against  any  critics  bold  enough  to  find  fault  with  Iron 
City.  "Boost,  boost,  boost;  publicity,  advertise" — 
these  made  up  the  creed  of  this  American  common 
wealth.  What  if  the  aliens  were  not  taken  care  of; 
what  if  there  were  heavy  murmurs  out  of  the  depths 
of  Sill's  mill?  Sill  who  was  known  to  have  spent 
$30,000  to  defeat  the  passage  of  the  Workman's  Com 
pensation  bill.  What  if  gas  was  $1.30  per  unit  I 
What  if  the  city  was  unintegrated  ?  What  if  art  was 
a  bastard  among  these  people?  What?  What? 

What? 

If  one  were  to  figure  in  stone  an  image  of  the 
commonwealth  of  Iron  City,  one  could  do  no  better 
than  to  carve  a  youth  in  his  first  long  trousers,  neither 
boy  nor  man.  One  would  need  to  make  this  figure  loll 
back  in  a  speeding  machine,  his  face  set  with  strength 
not  light,  his  hands  strong,  prehensile  like  a  man's, 
his  eyes  clear,  filled  with  no  dream,  his  destination 
yet  unknown. 


CHAPTER  II 

JOHN  COSMUS,  when  he  arrived  in  Iron  City  one 
September  morning  in  1913  to  take  up  his  duties 
as  instructor  in  Sociology  at  Crandon  Hill  College, 
could  not  by  any  chance  have  been  taken  for  a  person 
ification  of  the  city  itself.  He  was  young  enough  to 
be  sure,  immature,  if  you  will,  but  he  was  not  lacking 
in  poise;  he  had  also  a  quality,  spiritual,  not  fully  de 
veloped  perhaps  but  more  than  suggested  by  his  firmly 
knit  figure,  clean  gray  eyes,  and  thoughtful  face. 
Plainly  he  did  not  belong  to  the  breathless  nervousness 
of  Iron  City ;  he  was  not  below  nor  above,  but  beyond 
it.  Without  in  the  least  degree  suggesting  the  aca- 
demian,  he  was  in  a  homely  way  self-possessed  and 
distinguished ;  he  was  distinct  in  outline,  he  was  him 
self.  Seven  years  of  arduous  self-conquest  had  burned 
out,  even  in  one  so  young  as  he,  the  dross  of  insin 
cerity. 

But  like  all  those  who  are  direct,  Cosmus  saved 
himself  from  priggishness  by  not  knowing  what  he 
was.  As  he  stepped  off  the  express  from  Chicago  he 
sighed  with  relief  when  he  discovered  few  students 
on  the  station  platform.  He  was  self-conscious.  Hr.re 
and  there  were  groups  of  young  men  and  won^n 
laughing  and  gesticulating,  assuming  the  boisterc  ^S 
prerogatives  of  the  college  student.  John  thou£  i-vt 
that  the  young  men  were  better  dressed  than  himseU. 
He  glanced  nervously  at  his  somewht  worn  suit  a  :J 
recalled  a  little  bitterly  the  fact  that  manners  a  ^ 

23 


24  IRON  CITY 

acquired  before  one  is  fifteen,  and  that  the  school  of 
experience,  even  when  topped  off  with  Harvard,  does 
not  teach  one  how  to  wear  clothes.  He  stood 
awkwardly  for  a  minute,  lost  in  the  unreality  of  all 
those  last  seven  years, — his  college  course,  his  gradu 
ate  work,  his  first  bitter  experience  in  the  far  West 
teaching,  and  now  Iron  City,  "new  and  uncouth,"  but 
impressive.  He  glanced  regretfully  at  the  rapidly 
disappearing  train  and  saw  beyond  the  telegraph  wires, 
beckoning  amicably. 

A  cab  driver  tried  to  take  his  bag;  Cosmus  objected, 
saying  that  he  was  looking  for  Samuel  Curtis.  The 
ancient  cabman  obligingly  pointed  him  out  and  sim 
ultaneously  Curtis  saw  Cosmus.  They  looked  at  each 
other,  Curtis  fleetingly,  turning  his  shifty  black  eyes, 
away  at  once,  Cosmus  searchingly  as  was  his  wont. 
Cosmus  wanted  to  cry  out,  "How  sad  you  are !"  He 
had  the  habit,  feminine  he  laughingly  characterized  it, 
of  seeing  people  in  terms  of  vivid  exclamation.  And 
sad  Samuel  Curtis  was;  that  was  the  sum  total  of 
him.  His  gray  suit,  old  but  well  kept,  his  stiff  shirt 
with  its  high  round  collar,  such  as  clergymen  wear, 
with  its  four-in-hand,  half  unclasped,  could  have  no 
affiliation  with  anything  but  a  day  that  was  dead  and 
gone  and  sad.  His  fine  face,  with  its  high  brow,  was 
grown  prematurely  grave;  the  deep,  black  eyes  under 
their  bushy  brows,  furtively  searched  one's  face  and, 
instantly  disappointed,  searched  elsewhere;  his  fea 
tures  suggested  a  thwarted  personality;  but  when  he 
spoke,  Cosmus  could  not  believe  that  such  a  voice 
came  from  such  a  man ;  it  was  high  and  dull,  it  whim 
pered  and  whined;  it  savagely  butchered  its  native 
English. 

The  two  men  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  plat- 


IRON  CITY  25 

form,  and  this  gave  Curtis  a  chance  to  say  that  he 
was  glad  Cosmus  had  written  to  him  ahead  for  rooms, 
because  "accommodations"  were  scarce;  and  allowed 
him  to  get  his  guest's  baggage  and  tumble  them  all 
into  a  wide-seated  phaeton,  drawn  by  a  wheezy  red 
horse. 

Cosmus  often  thought  afterwards  that  his  triumphal 
entry  into  Iron  City  had  something  peculiarly  sym 
bolic  in  it.  The  tedious  pace  of  the  nag,  the  rattling 
wheels  of  the  ancient  vehicle,  seemed  to  run  counter 
to  Iron  City  life.  Everywhere  he  saw  flitting  auto 
mobiles,  marks  of  influence  and  affluence,  and  well 
dressed  crowds,  busy  streets,  and  bustling  life.  The 
city  was  at  the  height  of  its  tide,  moving  serenely 
toward  its  undemocratic  destiny,  and  Curtis  and  Cos 
mus,  in  their  old-fashioned  phaeton,  seemed  twin  apos 
tles,  each  in  his  way,  of  an  ancient  and  dying  and  of 
a  new  and  budding  democracy. 

They  did  not  talk  much.  After  Curtis  had  asked 
the  customary  questions  concerning  his  guest's  jour 
ney,  and  how  he  had  left  his  people,  he  relapsed  into 
silence.  Nevertheless  he  fascinated  Cosmus ;  he  seemed 
to  breathe  out  mystery  as  well  as  sadness.  Finally 
Cosmus  said,  "I  was  just  thinking  that  it  doesn't  look 
like  the  usual  college  town." 

"Times  do  change.  I  remember,"  and  Curtis  be 
gan  and  slipped  garrulously  into  reminiscences  of  the 
past,  full  of  plaintive  notes.  Here  Cosmus  was  first 
aware  of  another  strange  attribute  of  Curtis; — al 
though  but  fifty  he  assumed  on  the  slightest  provoca 
tion  the  role  of  the  aged.  Was  that  not  the  key  to 
him,  thought  Cosmus,  as  they  drove  along;  is  he  not 
a  somnambulist  of  a  vanished  dream? 

The  Curtis  house  was  located  near  the  campus  in 


26  IRON  CITY 

the  "good"  section  of  the  town,  on  what  was  known 
as  the  Bluff.  Here  was  the  center  of  the  New  Eng 
land  nucleus  of  the  city's  life.  The  Curtis  house  was 
a  great,  rambling  old  mansion  of  the  style  of  1872, 
overlooking  a  stagnant  brook  and  the  flats  that 
stretched  in  undulations  to  the  far-off  wooded 
ground  line.  On  the  flats,  near  the  brook,  Curtis  car 
ried  on  extensive  gardening.  The  house  was  as  quaint 
as  its  owner,  clean,  and  airy.  Cosmus — "Professor 
Cosmus,"  as  Curtis  called  him — was  to  have  a  large 
bedroom  overlooking  the  flats  on  the  East. 

Cosmus  was  delighted  with  Mrs.  Curtis.  She  was 
a  hearty,  motherly  woman  of  great  vivacity  and  irre 
pressible  cheerfulness,  and  she  made  him  wonder  ab 
ruptly  if  the  old  saying,  successful  marriages  are  op- 
posites,  held  true  here. 

"Now  I  just  want  you  to  make  yourself  at  home, 
Professor.  Everybody  does  who  comes  here.  You're 
not  much  older  than  my  boy,  you  know,  and  he  is  a 
freshman  just  this  year,  too."  John  was  doubtful 
about  the  "too,"  but  there  could  be  no  question  of 
her  cordiality.  "If  you  want  anything,"  she  went  on, 
"you  must  get  it  for  yourself ;  I  am  not  going  to  make 
you  company,  but  if  you  need  anything  that  you  can't 
find,  just  let  me  know." 

She  spoke  with  such  warmth  and  sincerity,  that 
Cosmus  was  completely  won.  "It  is  good  to  find 
a  home  so  soon,"  he  said  sincerely,  "I  know  I  am  going 
to  be  happy  here." 

"I  know  you  will,"  she  smiled  back.  "Sarah  Black- 
stone  says  home  is  not  a  place  but  a  spirit,  and  so  one 
can  have  more  than  one  home  perhaps." 

Cosmus  thinking  that,  perhaps,  Sarah  Blackstone 
was  a  new  author  he  had  not  read,  asked, 


IRON  CITY  27 

"Who  is  this  Sarah  Blackstone?" 

"You'll  meet  her,  for  she  is  on  the  faculty,  too." 

John  was  shown  to  his  room,  and  soon  had  his 
baggage  unpacked  and  his  things  put  away.  He 
found  on  the  table  a  book  that  interested  him.  It 
was  the  New  Testament  in  Greek,  margin-marked  and 
thumb-worn,  and  he  wondered  who  could  be  reading 
it.  Perhaps  it  had  been  left  by  some  former  student- 
occupant  of  the  room.  He  tossed  it  carelessly  into  a 
drawer.  A  little  later  after  he  was  settled,  Mr.  Curtis 
came  up  to  the  room  and  awkwardly  invited  him  to 
go  for  a  ride  in  the  afternoon — "to  see  our  little  city." 
John  consented,  but  Curtis  did  not  leave  immediately. 

"Say,"  he  said  nervously,  "did  you  see  anything  of 
an  old  book  around  here?" 

"Yes,  I  did.    This  Greek  testament,  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  said  Curtis,  taking  it  eagerly,  and 
preparing  to  depart. 

"Do  you  read  Greek?"  called  out  Cosmus  pleas 
antly.  Curtis  was  embarrassed.  "Well — well — I 
used  to,"  he  whimpered  in  the  strange  shrill  way  of 
his;  "I  still  read  this  old  New  Testament  sometimes. 
It's  kind  of  a  keep-sake."  And  he  passed  out  in  the 
atmosphere  peculiar  to  him. 

After  lunch,  Cosmus  threw  himself  down  into  a 
chair  to  rest.  He  consciously  tried  to  compose  his 
mind  to  make  it  fit  into  the  hurly  burly  of  new  im 
pressions.  He  wanted  to  feel  at  home,  but  he  did 
not.  He  felt  awkward,  and  new;  he  lacked  mastery. 
He  had  not  lived  long  enough  to  know  what  self  lay 
down  deep  beneath  the  folds  of  his  being;  he  could  not 
forecast  his  own  reactions;  he  was  not  sure  what  he 
yet  was,  or  was  to  be.  Although  he  had  had  a  so- 
called  higher  education  and  a  year  in  Harvard  gradu- 


28  IRON  CITY 

ate  school,  he  was  still  a  ghost  to  himself,  groping 
tremblingly  for  a  milieu  to  move  in.  He  dreaded, 
with  positive  pain,  the  thought  of  entering  the  class 
room  and  facing  the  rows  of  upturned  faces.  He 
dreaded  to  be  called  "professor."  He  cringed  beneath 
the  imagined  stares  of  the  crowds  at  chapel.  He  was 
a  coward.  Cosmus  had  taken  up  teaching  (and  here 
he  saw  himself  with  a  touch  of  irony),  because  he 
imagined  that  the  American  college  was  the  focal 
point  for  the  mother-brains,  the  creative  minds  of  the 
race ;  he  wanted  to  be  a  creative  mind,  and  he  wanted 
to  shape  minds  with  the  gift  for  creation.  Ever  since 
the  time  long,  long  ago  when  he  had  heard  over  the 
telephone  wires,  the  call  for  a  twenty-five  thousand 
dollar  brain,  he  had  shaped  his  career  with  that  idea 
dominating  him;  then  he  had  eschewed  business  or 
the  law,  accepting  a  position  at  twelve  hundred  dollars 
a  year,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  believed  that  the 
American  college  was  a  place  for  the  creative  minds 
of  the  age.  He  was  very  humble  as  he  contemplated 
his  opportunity  at  Crandon  Hill  College;  he  looked 
forward,  with  rosy  pleasure,  as  the  mind  will,  when  it 
hangs  between  sleep  and  waking,  to  a  long  life  of  un- 
applauded  service,  to  a  home  and  perhaps  later  a  wife. 
His  head  nodded.  He  dozed. 

He  was  awakened  by  voices.  He  tried  not  to 
listen,  but  he  could  not  help  it.  Samuel  Curtis  was 
saying  in  his  high  shrill  voice,  "I  can  not  do  it,  I  can 
not  do  it.  It  would  be  a  travesty  on  father  for  me 
to  play  his  part.  I  can  not."  And  then  came  Mrs. 
Curtis's  gentle  voice,  "I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you, 
dearie,  but  wouldn't  it  be  a  greater  travesty  for  some 
one  else  to  act  father's  part !"  "No,  no,  no,"  groaned 
Samuel  Curtis,  "I  can  not.  I  can  not."  "There,  there, 


IRON  CITY  29 

dearie,"  consoled  Mrs.  Curtis.  Cosmus  heard  the 
heavy  steps  of  the  master  of  the  house,  and  a  door 
slammed.  He  arose  and  washed  his  face  wonder- 
ingly. 

The  carriage  ride  that  afternoon  was  no  less  than 
a  personally  conducted  tour,  Samuel  Curtis,  the  least 
dictative  of  men,  seeming  somewhat  arbitrary  in  his 
itinerary.  Of  course  he  drove  Cosmus  to  the  campus. 
Nine  or  ten  buildings,  representing  stages  of  archi 
tecture  from  1830  to  1900,  from  the  grave  ecclesiasti- 
cism  of  Central  Hall  to  the  imitative  Greek  of  the 
Carnegie  Library,  impressed  the  stranger  as  unusually 
handsome.  Central  Hall,  Curtis  explained,  had  been 
built  with  the  bare  hands  of  the  first  trustees  and 
faculty.  A  significant  fact,  thought  Cosmus.  The 
campus,  from  a  rare  vantage  point  on  the  bluff,  over 
looked  the  river.  For  miles  the  eye  could  go  past  the 
dam  and  the  mills,  past  the  huge  establishment  of  R. 
Sill  and  Son,  which  was  like  one  great,  grimy  forge, 
lightened  by  lurid  glares, — beyond,  to  the  cooling 
angles  of  woodlands,  and  the  hazy  prairie  hills.  Cur 
tis  said  that  he  never  got  tired  looking  at  that  view. 
As  they  paused  to  look  they  were  accosted  by  some  one 
evidently  of  authority;  he  ignored  Curtis  with  delib 
erate  rudeness,  Cosmus  thought. 

"Mr.  Cosmus,"  he  said,  "don't  you  think  this  is  the 
prettiest  campus  you  ever  saw  ?"  Without  giving  time 
for  an  answer  he  continued,  "I  am  not  waiting  for  an 
introduction,  because  I  am  on  official  business.  I  am 
Professor  Reed,  secretary  to  the  faculty.  Our  good 
colleague,  Doctor  Mather,  died  suddenly  yesterday  in 
the  Canadian  Rockies ;  he  is  to  be  buried  here  the  third 
day  hence  and  the  president  is  anxious  for  the  new 
men  to  be  present  at  the  funeral,  both  as  a  mark  of 


30  IRON  CITY 

respect,  and  because  Professor  Mather  summed  up, 
as  it  were,  Crandon  Hill  spirit." 

All  this  was  said  as  if  it  had  been  learned,  in  the 
mechanical  feelingless  tone  of  the  functionary. 

Bowing  himself  away,  Professor  Reed  cut  across 
to  Central  Hall,  without  so  much  as  acknowledging 
Samuel  Curtis's  tardy  salutation.  Now  that  he  was 
gone,  Cosmus  turned  and  looked  at  his  companion. 
His  face  was  very  pale,  and  his  lips  worked  without 
forming  words.  Finally  Curtis  said,  as  though  speak 
ing  to  himself : 

"So  Chris  Mather  is  dead.  Yes,  yes,  dead.  I  went 
to  school  with  him.  Fine  boy.  Fine  boy."  He  seemed 
lost  in  the  past.  He  cast  a  spell  over  Cosmus' s  imag 
ination.  Sadness  was  the  heart  of  him.  It  was 
strange  that  this  gardener,  this  boarding-house  keeper, 
could  be  so  disturbing  to  one,  who  had  not  known  him 
twelve  hours,  even  to  the  point  of  teasing  him  with 
mystery. 

Curtis,  in  a  mechanical  way,  followed  (throughout 
the  city)  an  itinerary  which  obviously  had  been  care 
fully  mapped  out.  He  drove  from  the  campus  to  the 
Historical  House,  a  compact,  gray  frame  building  of 
the  Civil  War  period.  Presidents  and  governors  and 
generals  had  been  entertained  there.  Then  to  the 
Crandon  Iron  Works,  the  second  manufactory  in  size 
and  importance.  As  they  passed,  Cosmus  caught  a 
glimpse  of  marble  corridors  through  the  awninged 
windows  of  the  office  building.  Hence  to  Iron  City's 
Savings  and  Trust  Company,  and  then  by  the  prettiest 
residence  street,  home. 

Three  days  later,  John  attended  the  funeral  of  Pro 
fessor  Christopher  Mather.  The  Mather  house  had 
manorial  spaciousness,  and  the  dignity  of  a  day  long 


IRON  CITY  31 

passed  in  house  building.  Austere,  substantial,  vener 
able,  it  faced  the  campus  like  some  ghostly  guardian 
of  the  past. 

Curtis  and  Cosmus  found  seats  in  what  must  have 
been  the  library,  and  the  latter  noticed,  with  fastidious 
accuracy,  every  detail  of  the  room.  What  dampness! 
What  sickening  odors !  Hyacinths,  with  their  mes 
sage  of  death,  suffused  the  air  with  their  fragrance. 
Sunlight  seemed  quenched  in  the  heavy  twilight  of  the 
long  rooms.  The  musk  of  books  and  rugs  and  closed 
rooms  mingled  with  the  scent  of  flowers.  Far  away 
in  a  shadowy  part  of  the  house,  some  rich  male  voice 
was  intoning :  "The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,  I  shall  not 
want."  There  were  no  songs.  Only  silence — the  rest 
less  silence  of  mourners,  broken  by  the  creak  of  chairs 
under  nervous  masculine  backs,  the  rustling  of  silk,  a 
slowly  indrawn  sigh,  the  buzz  of  an  insect,  the  murmur 
of  leaves  outside  far  away  along  the  walk.  The  atmos 
phere  made  John  feel  dull  and  heavy.  His  mind  ran 
along  glassy  surfaces  of  impressions  and  symbols.  The 
Past,  he  mused,  this  is  the  visible  embodiment  of  the 
Past.  These  are  the  sentient  walls  of  an  old  house;  its 
history  is,  perhaps,  the  history  of  America's  intellec 
tual  life,  its  pioneer  hopes  and  fears,  and  frontier 
struggles.  Its  walls  went  up  when  Emerson  broke 
the  fetters  of  European  intellectual  dominance  with 
his  "American  Scholar";  its  roof  repelled  rains  when 
Lincoln  unbowed  his  head  at  Gettysburg  and  poured 
out  in  three  minutes  the  charity  of  his  great  heart;  its 
enfolding  ivy  was  planted  when  James  J.  Hill  began 
his  empire  in  the  great  Northwest.  It  has  persisted 
through  storm,  rains  and  change — yet  to  persist? 
Cosmus  glanced  up,  almost  as  if  he  felt  the  gaze  of 
some  one's  eyes,  to  stare  directly  into  a  pictured  face; 


32  IRON  CITY 

it  was  a  Puritan  face,  at  least  "Puritan"  as  visioned 
by  French  in  his  figure  of  stone — calm,  reverential, 
unafraid. 

"Is  that  a  picture  of  Professor  Mather  up  there?" 
he  whispered  to  Samuel  Curtis. 

"No,"  Curtis  answered,  "his  father,  the  first  presi 
dent  of  Crandon  Hill  College,"  and  then  he  added 
irrelevantly,  "There  have  been  only  three  since." 

Cosmus  renewed  his  scrutiny  of  the  painting  with 
fresh  interest.  So  from  father  to  son,  the  torch  of 
civilization  had  been  handed!  From  son  to  whom? 

And  then  as  a  postlude  to  these  thoughts,  a  voice  in 
another  room,  far  away  and  ghostly,  began  to  read 
the  life  of  Christopher  Dwight  Mather:  "Christopher 
D wight  Mather,  son  of  Ellery  Dwight  Mather,  first 
president  of  Crandon  Hill  College,  was  born  in  Ir-  n 
City  on  September  14,  1864.  He  attended  the  public 
schools  of  Iron  City  and  the  Plainfield  Academy,  and 
later,  in  1881,  entered  the  college  here.  Professor 
Mather  was  distinguished  by  an  ardent  love  of  litera 
ture,  and  began  at  an  early  age  to  record  his  thoughts 
and  impressions  in  a  journal.  His  life,  so  outwardly 
calm,  is  best  revealed  through  this  chronicle." 

Then  followed  some  passages  which  showed  vividly 
the  simplicity,  the  democracy,  the  ardent  idealism  of 
the  college  of  a  generation  ago.  One  passage  stuck  in 
Cosmus's  mind  long  after. 

"March  5,  1897.  The  election  of  Major  McKinley 
illustrates  conclusively  the  bad  effect  of  the  Civil  War. 
Most  of  us  Americans,  lost  in  sentimentalism,  fail  to 
see  that  the  Civil  War  was  baneful.  With  no  excep 
tion,  this  war  made  every  president  up  to  Major  Mc 
Kinley  himself,  a  soldier.  It  served  as  an  excuse  fof 
a  high  protective  tariff,  which  allowed  expansion  and 


IRON  CITY  33 

development  of  natural  resources.  It  permitted  tre 
mendous  condensation  of  capital  in  the  hands  of  a  few 
— and  now  all  our  problems,  God  help  us,  the  prob 
lems  of  living  in  New  York  City,  and  the  prob 
lems  of  education  at  Crandon  Hill,  turn  on  the  greater 
problem  of  condensation  of  capital.  I  am  not  sure 
that  old  Professor  Jason  was  not  right  when  he  said, 
'Science  is  from  the  devil.'  Science  has  invented 
machines  which  have  killed^  handicraft,  and  when 
handicraft  goes,  art  goes.  Science  has  intertangled 
nations  with  eloquent  wires.  Science,  and  its  methods 
of  generalization,  have  taught  men  how  to  think  in  the 
large,  and  build  huge  dynasties  of  riches.  There  are 
hard  times  before  you,  O  Republic,  and  before  you, 
O  Crandon  Hill  College.  Education  is  mechanized. 
We  have  lost  our  soul.  Why  can't  we  go  back  to 
the  old  ideals  of  my  father!" 

"The  entries  in  the  diary  break  off  in  1901.  Pro 
fessor  Mather  served  his  college  loyally  up  to  this 
year,  1913.  He  went  last  June  to  the  Canadian 
Rockies,  never  to  return.  Those  of  us  who  knew  him 
personally,  who  felt  the  daily  electric  shock  of  his 
personality,  can  only  bow  our  heads  now,  as  he  would 
have  us  do,  in  silent  submission." 

The  funeral  made  a  deep  impression  upon  Cosmus. 
It  brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  college  of  the  past 
— the  sabbatical,  simple,  reclusive  student  life  which 
he  had  already  dimly  felt.  He  came  to  the  swift  con 
clusion  that  if  this  funeral  were  typical  of  its  life, 
Crandon  Hill  College  must  be  a  fossil  imprisoned  in 
a  rock. 

Long  after  he  had  blown  out  the  kerosene  lamp  that 
night,  Cosmus  sat  in  the  dark,  overlooking  the  moon 
lit  flats,  thinking  and  planning.  Life  seemed  so  simple 


34  IRON  CITY 

and  easy  just  then.  For  one  who  had  met  the  jagged 
edges  of  life  in  his  earlier  years,  Cosmus  was  unusu 
ally  innocent  of  the  world.  He  thought  it  a  place  for 
the  working  out  of  simple  justice;  he  had  not  yet 
discovered  that  there  were  men  who  were  utterly  un 
like  himself  in  their  patriotism.  To  him  there  were 
no  inscrutable  mysteries,  save  the  simple  mysteries : 
the  passing  of  time,  the  perpetuity  of  the  past  in  the 
present;  reproduction  and  love.  All  else  was  clear, 
under  the  solvency  of  man's  mind.  He  sat  immersed 
in  his  thoughts  until  he  saw  a  figure  come  up  from 
the  flat  below,  and  stand  for  a  moment,  looking  up 
at  the  stars;  silhouetted  clear  against  the  light,  the 
body  could  be  clearly  seen  bent  heavily,  revealing  as 
the  blurred  features  could  not,  utter  dejection  of 
spirit.  Cosmus  could  not  take  his  eyes  away;  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night  he  heard  the  sigh  which  fell  front 
the  tired  lips  of  the  man  under  the  trees  below.  Once 
the  figure  lifted  up  its  arms  in  silent  implo ration,  then 
dropped  them  submissively,  and  disappeared  in  the 
shadow  of  the  house.  The  night  was  empty  now :  it 
seemed  impotent  to  speak  its  thoughts.  Cosmus  mused  ; 
he  wondered  if  he  must  go  on  forever  feeling  sorry 
for  Samuel  Curtis. 


CHAPTER  III 

ONE  morning  before  school  opened,  while  John 
Cosmus  was  dressing  in  his  room,  Mrs.  Curtis 
came  to  him  greatly  agitated.  When  John  had  per 
suaded  her  to  be  seated,  and  while  he  was  still  finish 
ing  shaving,  he  tried  to  disentangle  the  strands  of  her 
snarled  story.  She  had  come  to  tell  him  that  Sarah 
Blackstone  was  to  be  relieved  of  her  position  as  in 
structor  in  history  at  Crandon  Hill  College,  but  her 
indignation  made  her  at  times  incoherent. 

"And  what  I  want  you  to  do,  Professor  Cosmus, 
is  to  go  and  plead  her  case." 

"But  I  don't  know  Miss  Blackstone,"  he  protested, 
"and  I  am  a  stranger  here." 

"So  much  the  better.  They  will  listen  to  you  im-. 
partially,  because  you  can  see  the  thing  as  right,  not 
personally,  you  know." 

John  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  naive  absurdity 
of  Mrs.  Curtis's  request;  but  he  took  the  thing  too 
lightly,  perhaps,  when  he  said,  "But  how  do  I  know 
that  Miss  Blackstone  deserves  to  remain  on  the  fac 
ulty  of  Crandon  Hill  College?  A  faculty,  you  know, 
Mrs.  Curtis,  is  a  very  dignified,  ultra-respectable  body, 
which  must  uphold  the  best  traditions  and  noble  cus 
toms  of  the  past." 

"Sarah  Blackstone,"  she  broke  in,  not  perceiving 
the  irony  in  his  words,  "is  the  truest,  sweetest " 

"Yes,  but  what  is  the  charge  preferred  against  her?"" 

35 


36  IRON  CITY 

"That  she  don't  go  to  church." 

"Doesn't  go  to  church?" 

"Yes,  and  she  is  a  religious  person,  Professor  Cos- 
mus.  I  know  she  has  peculiar  notions  about  church, 
and  I  don't  exactly  agree  with  her,  but  that  makes  no 
difference;  she  is  really  good.  You  see  I  belong  to 
Reverend  Mr.  Dingley's  flock — the  First  Congrega 
tional,  the  biggest  church  in  town.  I  have  been  serv 
ing  as  deaconess — visiting  the  sick,  and  relief  work, 
all  that  sort  of  thing,"  she  interpolated,  not  sure  that 
he  knew  what  the  work  of  a  deaconess  was,  "and, 
would  you  believe  it,  everywhere  I  go  I  find  myself 
anticipated — Sarah  Blackstone  has  been  there  scatter 
ing  good — not  letting  her  right  hand  know  what  her 
left  hand  doeth — but  Reverend  Mr.  Dingley  don't  see 
that  this  is  being  religious.  Well,  I  do  wish  Sarah 
would  go  to  church,  too,  and  not  cause  all  this  bother." 

"I  can't  believe  that  any  such  charge  would  relieve 
Miss  Blackstone  of  her  position;  Crandon  Hill  is  no 
longer  a  church  school,  it  is  on  the  Foundation.  Are 
you  sure  there  is  nothing  else?" 

"Well,  there  is  something  else.  Sarah  has  been  dis 
tributing  tracts  on  the  limitation — let's  see — well,  on 
not  having  so  many  babies,  you  know,"  she  said,  look 
ing  hard  at  John. 

Cosmus  thought  a  moment.  "I  see.  Tracts  on  the 
limitation  of  offspring?"  Mrs.  Curtis  nodded. 

Finally  he  said,  "I  will  go,  Mrs.  Curtis,  if  you  think 
I  can  do  anything." 

But  when  Mrs.  Curtis  and  John  rapped  at  the  door 
of  Sarah  Blackstone's  house  a  little  later,  they  were 
told  that  she  had  gone  over  to  see  President  Crandon 
at  the  college.  John  felt  some  reluctance  in  intruding 
farther  into  such  a  matter,  but  the  nature  of  the  charge 


IRON  CITY  37 

against  Miss  Blackstone  made  it  more  than  a  private 
affair.  Any  one  with  a  social  consciousness,  he 
thought,  must  feel  an  interest  in  this  case.  And  then 
Mrs.  Curtis  said: 

"I  don't  mind  going  over  to  President  Crandon*s 
office  one  bit.  I  have  known  him  all  my  life ;  he  was 
a  great  friend  of  my  father's,  and  Reverend  Mr.  Ding- 
ley  will  not  resent  it — besides  this  will  be  a  good  way 
for  you  to  see  the  real  Sarah  Blackstone." 

John  allowed  himself  to  be  led  along.  When  they 
arrived  at  the  library,  Mrs.  Curtis  knocked  at  the 
President's  office  door,  and  when  it  was  opened, 
calmly  walked  in.  Drawn  up  about  the  long  mahogany 
table,  there  were  four  persons.  John  recognized  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Dingley,  a  youngish  man,  fastidiously 
dressed,  singularly  handsome.  His  voice  was  notice 
ably  deep  and  fine,  and  he  seemed  to  delight  in  playing 
upon  it.  Hugh  Crandon,  president  of  Crandon  Hill 
College,  who  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  was  a  man 
well  toward  sixty.  He  was  the  dominating  figure  in 
Crandon  Hill  life.  He  looked  his  part,  tall,  square, 
alert,  with  gray  hair  and  mustache,  and  refined  man 
ner.  His  face  had  lost,  if  it  ever  had  possessed  it, 
anything  of  ministerial  look;  it  wore  an  expression  of 
calculating  shrewdness.  "A  corporation  lawyer,"  some 
one  once  called  him  in  John's  presence.  Yet  with  the 
shrewdness,  or  rather  as  a  part  of  it,  was  a  kind  of 
immobility  behind  w^hich  the  real  Hugh  Crandon  al 
ways  retreated.  John  felt  this  remoteness  of  person 
ality  in  his  first  meeting  with  President  Crandon  and 
at  his  last.  The  president  now  introduced  Mrs.  Curtis 
and  John  to  Miss  Georgia  Summers,  Dean  of  women. 
Though  she  smiled  and  dimpled,  she  did  not  conceal 
her  displeasure  at  Mrs.  Curtis's  intrusion.  The  other 


38  IRON  CITY 

person  at  the  table  was  Miss  Blackstone,  whom  John 
met  for  the  first  time. 

President  Crandon  was  above  annoyance;  he  said 
that  they  were  met  there  to  consider  some  common 
interests  of  the  college,  but  that  these  could  wait,  if 
the  business  of  Mrs.  Curtis  and  Mr.  Cosmus  was 
urgent;  he  would  retire  with  them  to  another  room. 

"With  your  permission,  President  Crandon,"  broke 
in  Miss  Blackstone,  "I  would  like  to  speak  before  my 
friend,  Mrs.  Curtis,  and  before  Mr.  Cosmus,  a  mem 
ber  of  the  faculty.  I  am  afraid  we  differ  as  to  the 
nature  of  this  conference.  I  consider  it  wholly  a  pub 
lic  matter." 

President  Hugh  Crandon  was  plainly  disturbed.  "A 
public  matter,  Miss  Blackstone?  I  don't  understand. 

It  is  customary,  you  know "     He  paused,  as  if 

hoping  she  would  understand,  as  if  by  telepathy,  and 
not  prolong  the  disagreeable  controversy. 

"I  understand,"  she  said.  "It  is  customary  to  con 
sider  Crandon  Hill  College  a  private  institution,  when 
in  reality,  it  is  entirely  a  public  one.  It  is  my  belief 
that  every  member  of  the  faculty  should  consider  him 
self  a  public  servant." 

"No  doubt,  they  do,"  replied  the  president. 

"I  am  sure  they  do,"  said  Reverend  Mr.  Dingley. 

"I  am  sure  that  duty  to  the  public  is  uppermost,  as 
it  were,  in  the  heart  of  every  one  of  Crandon  Hill's 
professors,"  chanted  Dean  Georgia  Summers. 

"Then  there  can  be  no  possible  reason  why  Mrs. 
Curtis  and  Mr.  Cosmus  may  not  stay,  and  why  I  can 
not  explain  at  once — very  simply,  why  I  have  stayed 
away  from  church,  and  have  distributed  tracts  on  the 
limitation  of  offspring  among  the  Italian  and  Lithu- 


IRON  CITY  39 

anian  women  of  Iron  City.  Those  are  the  charges,  I 
believe?" 

President  Crandon  looked  uncomfortable. 

"There  were  no  charges,  Miss  Blackstone.  As  is 
the  custom,  we  merely  wanted  to  talk  over  certain 
matters  relative  to  your  general  effectiveness  as  a 
teacher." 

"May  I  ask  what  matters?" 

"Yes,"  said  Reverend  Mr.  Dingley.  "Apart  from 
your  ecclesiastical  views,  do  you  not  think  that  you 
would  be  a  greater  force  in  the  community,  a  better 
example  to  the  students,  if  you  united  yourself  with 
some  church  of  your  choice?  The  college,  I  beg  to 
remind  you,  my  dear  Miss  Blackstone,  had  its  genesis 
in  the  church,  was  furthermore  fathered  by  the  church, 
and  should  still  acknowledge,  though  superficially 
estranged  by  the  Foundation,  its  connection  with  the 
church." 

"May  I  ask  you  a  personal  question,  Mr.  Dingley  ?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"How  many  sermons  have  you  heard  in  the  past 
year?" 

"Well,  now,  that  is  hard  to  say.  One  or  two,  I 
judge." 

"I  have  heard  five.  I  hope  you  won't  think  I  am 
impertinent,  if  I  point  out  that  if  goodness  is  depend 
ent  on  hearing  sermons" — she  paused.  There  was  a 
dazzle  in  Miss  Blackstone's  eyes  that  John  liked  to 
see. 

"But  Miss  Blackstone,  the  sermon  is  the  smallest 
part  of  church-going;  the  real  thing  is  the  acknowl 
edgment  of  one's  connection  with  the  community." 

"I  agree,  but  I  prefer  to  acknowledge  my  connec- 


40  IRON  CITY 

tion  with  the  community  by  working  in  it — by  dis 
tributing  tracts,  for  instance." 

John  Cosmus  was  delighted  with  this  little  drama. 
He  was  content  to  be  a  spectator;  but  he  saw  the  eyes 
of  President  Hugh  Crandon  meet  those  of  Reverend 
Mr.  Dingley  across  the  table  in  full  understanding. 
The  president  arose,  and  said  affably,  "I  believe  we 
thoroughly  understand  each  other,  Miss  Blackstone, 
and  I  think  there  is  no  longer  any  reason  to  prolong 
this  discussion." 

A  change  came  over  Miss  Blackstone.  She  no 
longer  bantered,  but  hardened  into  seriousness. 

"Before  I  am  dismissed,  President  Crandon,  I  feel 
as  if — as  if  I  must  justify  myself  before  my  friend, 
Mrs.  Curtis,  and  Mr.  Cosmus,  wrho  may  be  said  to 
represent  the  public.  It  has  been  my  position  in  this 
matter  that  a  teacher  should  do  more  than  keep  classes, 
that  he  should  be  a  living  link  between  the  public  and 
the  best  thought  of  the  moment.  That  is  all  I  have 
tried  to  do,  and  if  I  am  discharged  from  Crandon  Hill 
College,  I  shall  simply  state  the  reasons  as  I  see  them, 
to  the  press." 

"Why,  my  dear  Miss  Blackstone,"  said  Dean 
Georgia  Summers,  "who  ever  thought  of  discharging 
you?  I  am  sure  we  all  think  of  you  as  one  of  our 
most  effective  teachers." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  President  Crandon. 

"Then,"  said  Miss  Blackstone  sweetly,  "will  you 
please  say  I  have  resigned  ?  I  am  going  home  to  ac 
cept  a  position  that  Mr.  Boyne  of  the  Crandon  Hill 
Iron  Works  offered  me  this  morning." 

Cosmus  later  acknowledged  that  he  was  somewhat 
amazed  by  Miss  Blackstone's  audacity.  Had  she 
leaped  beyond  him?  Had  this  young  woman  out- 


IRON  CITY  41 

thought  him,  determining  educational  values  that  were 
unknown  to  him?  To  tell  the  truth,  Cosmus  was 
shocked  by  her  decisiveness.  College  to  him  had  al 
ways  been  something  sacred,  something  to  give  his 
life  to,  and  her  disloyalty,  flippant  on  the  surface  at 
least,  seemed  at  this  moment  almost  a  sacrilege.  Was 
she  courting  trouble?  Was  this  girl  all  head  and  no 
heart? 

President  Crandon,  urbane,  immobile  ever,  ex 
pressed,  as  in  a  sermon,  perfunctory  regret  that  the 
college  was  to  lose  the  services  of  Miss  Blackstone  and 
bowed  them  out. 

On  the  steps  of  the  library  Mrs.  Curtis  beamed  upon 
Sarah  Blackstone  and  Professor  Cosmus  and  re-intro 
duced  them.  It  was  the  beginning  of  what  was  to  be 
something  more  than  a  pleasant  acquaintance.  As  she 
stood  talking  for  a  few  minutes  with  Mrs.  Curtis, 
Cosmus  had  an  opportunity  to  study  Sarah  Black- 
stone's  face  unobserved.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
striking  characteristic  of  her  singularly  delicate  face 
was  clearness  of  design.  Unlike  hers,  some  faces  are 
distinguished  by  one  or  two>  fine  features;  perhaps  the 
eyes  are  deep  and  large,  while  the  chin  may  be  weak 
and  slanting;  sometimes  the  nose  is  regal,  and  the 
mouth  is  a  straight,  short  line.  Not  so  with  Sarah's 
face;  every  feature  stood  out  in  relief.  Rich  brown 
hair,  distinct  dark  brows  over  deep  blue  eyes,  skin  of 
warm,  rosy  texture.  These  features,  clearly  designed, 
belonged  together;  the  face  was  handsome;  it  was 
beautiful  because  these  parts  formed  a  harmonious 
whole. 

Clearness  of  design  bespoke  clearness  of  spirit.  As 
the  days  of  their  acquaintance  passed,  when  he  was 
away  from  her,  Cosmus  thought  of  her  in  cooling  sym- 


42  IRON  CITY 

bols:  a  mountain  lake,  a  snow-capped  mountain  of 
soft  contour,  a  Greek  statue,  symbols  of  beautiful,  in 
spiring  things  far  removed.  When  he  was  near  her, 
he  thought  of  a  clean-lipped,  clean-limbed  little  brother 
that  he  once  had  had — and  lost. 

But  though  she  did  not  lack  geniality  or  compan- 
ionableness,  she  possessed  a  faint,  impersonal  quality, 
a  distantness,  a  vague  elusiveness,  which  he  felt  but 
could  not  analyze.  On  their  walks,  he  was  just  as 
happy  to  feel  her  bound  alone  up  the  hill  beside  him, 
nostrils  taut,  her  cheeks  flushed,  as  he  would  have 
been  if  he  had  dared  to  put  his  arm  about  her  and 
move  up  together  limb  to  limb. 

Cosmus  sometimes  longed  for  some  show  of  weak 
ness,  of  human  need  on  her  part.  Such  self-suffi 
ciency  was,  he  thought,  uncanny  in  a  woman.  Often, 
as  a  result  of  her  aloofness,  they  engaged  in  badinage, 
under  which  lurked  a  more  solemn  symbolism.  One 
day  when  he  came  down  stairs  at  Mrs.  Curtis's,  he 
found  her  at  a  window.  She  turned  and  faced  him. 

"You  have  come  to  play  with  me,  little  girl?" 

She  caught  his  mood. 

"No,  I  don't  play  with  little  boys.  I  came  to  see 
Mother  Curtis." 

"But  I  want  you  to  play  with  me,  to  see  the  sun  and 
shining  air.  The  hills  are  waiting  for  us.  Let  us  go!" 

"But  I  dare  not.  Old  Grandmother  Convention 
said,  'Child,  you  must  never  go  until  you  have ' ' 

"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,  but  grand 
mother  is  dead  now,  and  anyway,  she  never  practiced 
her  own  advice."  Pleadingly,  "If  you  will  come  I'll 
show  you  something." 

"What?" 

"Will  you  come?" 


IRON  CITY  43 

"Show  me  first." 

"You  promise?" 

"Yes." 

"My  crooked  finger."  He  held  up  the  marked 
hand. 

"Poor  boy,"  she  said.  "How  did  you  hurt  it?" 
This  with  exquisite  solicitude. 

They  went  out  into  the  tonic  air.  Cosmus  never 
had  seen  such  a  splendid  creature.  With  half  the 
length  of  stride,  she  kept  pace  with  him;  her  eyes  sharp 
and  clear;  her  breast  deep  and  full;  she  looked  like 
an  incarnate  figure  of  Womankind. 

"Where  do  you  play  oftenest?"  he  asked,  to  break 
a  silence  that  was  not  at  all  awkward. 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  go  where  I  play  best  ?" 

"Yes,  please  take  me." 

"Only  he  who  has  a  boy's  soul  can  go,"  she  said. 

He  was  silent.  They  went  on  past  children  dancing 
on  a  lawn,  where  every  grass-blade  shook  silver  sun- 
drops  down. 

"Have  you  a — a  boy's  soul?"  she  asked  mischiev 
ously. 

"I  have  a  soul,  I  know  it.  I  just  discovered  that 
this  evening." 

"But  a  child's  soul,"  she  insisted. 

"You  answer  that.    You're  sitting  as  judge !" 

She  laughed. 

"Then  you  can  hear  my  symphony." 

"Your  symphony?    Then  you  play,  do  you?" 

"There,  you  betrayed  yourself.  You  can't  make- 
believe.  Your  soul  is  the  soul  of  a  man.  Take  me 
home,  sir." 

Cosmus  looked  at  her,  and  saw  she  had  slipped  into 
seriousness. 


44  IRON  CITY 

They  turned  about,  and  silently  tramped  to  town. 
At  the  gate  of  the  cottage,  at  which  he  left  her,  Cos- 
mus,  with  deference,  said : 

"Miss  Blackstone,  have  I  been  rude?  When  I  find 
the  soul  of  a  boy  that  is  gone,  may  I  come  again?" 

"I'll  ask  Grandad  Convention,"  she  retorted,  and 
flashed  into  the  house. 

John  found  rest  and  satisfaction  in  her.  Without 
reservation,  he  could  give  her  full  allegiance.  She 
seemed  able  to  follow  him  into  ways  of  tortuous 
thinking,  excursions  he  liked  to  take  now  and  then 
into  abstract  knowledge.  Her  spirit,  too,  it  seemed  to 
him,  was  not  cut  off,  as  his  was  not,  from  the  poet 
heart  of  humanity.  Yet,  there  was  something  lacking 
in  her,  a  baffling  something  that  he  searched  to  find. 
It  was  her  mystery. 

One  day,  when  they  were  in  the  midst  of  crowded 
Cambridge  Street,  a  dirty  child  toddled  up  and  clutched 
Sarah's  dress.  Its  upturned  face,  tear-stained  and 
pitiful,  its  wistful  helplessness,  filled  John  at  once 
with  the  most  intense  pity.  Sarah  looked  down  at  the 
child,  not  unkindly,  then  bent  and  carefully  unloosed 
its  hand. 

"Go  find  your  mother,  child,"  she  admonished. 

Cosmus  was  not  satisfied.  Was  that  the  key  to 
her  mystery?  Not  that  her  body  lacked  vitality,  but 
that  she  had  chastity,  so  profound,  that  she  shrank 
from  motherhood?  Was  Sarah  Blackstone  but  an 
Attitude,  a  Spirit? 

He  tried  to  get  her  to  talk  about  herself,  but  he 
failed.  Here,  too,  her  self-sufficiency  asserted  itself. 
She  spoke  of  her  home  in  the  metropolis;  of  her  fam 
ily,  of  friends;  but  the  allusions  were  always  vague 
and  impersonal.  She  had  a  kind  of  wistful  interest  in 


IRON  CITY  45 

many  persons  in  Iron  City.  She  it  was  who  told 
Cosmus  about  old  Professor  Jason,  first  professor  of 
philosophy  in  Crandon  Hill  College,  who  had  com 
mitted  suicide  when  science  courses  were  first  intro 
duced  into  the  curriculum.  Her  interest  in  people, 
though,  seemed  to  John  more  intellectual  than  friend 
ly;  more  sociological  than  maternal. 

He  had  no  trouble  in  talking  of  himself  to  her. 
When  he  congratulated  her  on  her  strength  in  re 
signing  from  the  faculty  of  Crandon  Hill  College, 
she  replied  that  she  had  merely  suited  her  own  pleas 
ure,  pointing  out  laughingly  that  he  was  still  in  prison 
and  she  free. 

"I've  discovered  this  week,"  he  answered,  "that  I 
am  not  getting  along  very  well  with  my  classes.  It's 
a  questionable  joy  standing  before  a  group  of  people 
and  pouring  out  the  best  you  have  on  inattentive  ears. 
The  students  sit  negligently  for  the  hour,  courteously 
quiet,  save  for  an  audible  breath,  now  and  then,  or 
the  scraping  of  feet.  But  not  once  can  I  strike  fire. 
The  world  is  so  wonderful  to  me,"  he  asserted  boy 
ishly;  "it  is  filled  with  so  many  problems  and  is  dan 
gerous  with  so  many  impending  changes,  so  momen 
tous  with  opportunities  that  I  expect  all  young  men 
and  women  to  be  moved  at  the  sight  of  it." 

"I  understand,"  she  answered. 

"I  have  a  deep  sense  of  limitation,"  he  went  on,  "in 
this  new  field  at  Crandon  Hill  College.  It  began  my 
first  morning  at  chapel.  I  entered  confidently — in 
flated  perhaps,  a  little  youthful,  you  know,  and 
mounted  the  platform  to  take  a  seat.  I  was  met  by, 
President  Crandon.  'Mr.  Cosmus,'  he  said,  'the 
faculty  are  seated  according  to  rank,  and  instructors 
sit  down  there.'  His  thumb  pointed  peremptorily  to 


46  IRON  CITY 

a  row  of  seats  among  the  students.  I  colored;  some 
students  laughed;  and  I  obeyed  his  gesture.  It  was 
awfully  humiliating,  if  it  was  only  a  trifle.  I  have 
tried  to  see  the  philosophy  that  lay  behind  it." 

"The  college,  you  know,"  Miss  Blackstone  replied, 
not  without  a  touch  of  irony,  "is  an  emanation  of  the 
home,  and  must  be  patriarchal  in  its  form  of  govern 
ment.  You,  as  youngest  in  the  family,  must  sit  at  the 
foot  of  the  table." 

"So  I  discovered.  There  seem  to  be  six  tiers  of 
eminence  in  Crandon  Hill  life:  assistants,  instructors, 
assistant  professors,  professors,  deans  and  president — • 
all  rigidly  observed.  No  professor's  wife  would  make 
the  mistake  of  inviting  a  mere  instructor  to  tea.  I 
thought,"  he  concluded  with  a  smile,  "that  I  had  grad 
uated  from  the  democracy  of  manual  labor  into  the 
democracy  of  learning  years  ago,  and  instead  I  find 
it  is  a  monarchy." 

"Not  a  despotism?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

By  this  time,  the  two  had  made  a  detour  and  had 
come  again  to  the  city.  The  town  lay  in  the  valley, 
cut  by  the  sweeping  river;  there  were  the  towers  of 
the  college  on  the  Bluff,  a  few  scattered  church  spires, 
bridges,  the  red-bricked  shops,  and  the  smoldering 
factories.  It  lay  still  frozen  into  calm,  like  a  painted 
thing  far  removed  from  the  sordidness  of  daily  life, 
as  beautiful  as  Wordsworth's  London,  as  tranquil  as 
Keats's  marble  town.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  John 
a  dream,  with  Sarah  the  only  reality.  Then  he  re 
membered  the  streets  filled  with  busy  life,  the  gutters 
running  with  filth,  the  factories  full  of  restless,  dis 
contented  thousands,  the  churches,  unattended,  the 
cramped  quarters  for  the  negro,  the  dago  shacks  along 
Guy  street.  "Submerged  hatred,  decaying  democracy, 


IRON  CITY  47 

class  feuds,  social  parasitism,  gross  materialism" — 
these  broken  phrases  flowed  through  his  mind,  and 
when  he  glanced  at  Sarah,  she  seemed  rilled  with  the 
same  emotion.  They  passed  down  into  the  town,  trod 
the  busy  streets,  and  came  to  her  door,  both  conscious 
of  the  difference  between  the  painted  city  of  the  hill 
and  the  city  of  reality ;  and  they  felt  very  near  to  each 
other. 

Cosmus  spent  much  of  his  spare  time  with  Sarah 
Blackstone  in  the  first  months  of  his  struggle  at  Cran- 
don  Hill  College.  She  was  an  inspiration  to  him,  and 
so  he  did  not  heed  the  inevitable  buzz  of  censure  that 
arose  from  his  colleagues  on  the  faculty.  But  one 
evening  on  returning  from  a  walk,  Mrs.  Curtis  ac 
costed  him  at  the  door.  As  usual  she  treated  him  to  a 
long  recital  of  petty  happenings  in  her  customary  de 
lightful  vein  of  motherliness.  She  was  one  of  those 
women  with  a  deep,  unsatisfied,  maternal  feeling;  per 
haps  this  accounted  for  both  her  charm  and  her  unat- 
tractiveness;  her  quick  human  sympathy  and  her  gos 
siping  restlessness.  This  evening  amidst  the  flow  of 
small  things,  there  was  one  question  the  significance 
of  which  did  not  strike  him  until  nearly  an  hour  later. 

"Has  Sarah  ever  told  you  about  her  friend  Sidney 
Haynes?" 

When  that  question  suddenly  returned  to  him,  he 
was  sitting  at  his  table  reading  a  new  treatise  on  the 
Single  Tax.  He  immediately  went  in  search  of  Mrs. 
Curtis,  and  asked  her  what  she  had  meant. 

"Why,  you  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "Sarah  has  referred 
so  often  to  Sidney  Haynes,  I  thought  maybe  you  ought 
to  know  about  him."  She  paused,  and  then  added, 
"Seeing  that  you  are  with  her  so  much." 


48  IRON  CITY 

The  explanation  was  worse  than  the  question,  and 
Cosmus  was  uncomfortable. 

After  this  conversation  with  Mrs.  Curtis  he  went 
out  for  a  walk.  He  followed  the  lighted  street  until 
there  were  no  lights,  and  he  went  into  the  country, 
down  the  dim  road,  past  the  brown  fields  and  the 
silent  brown  farm  houses.  When  he  returned  the  city 
was  asleep.  All  the  houses  were  dark,  save  where 
panted  the  great  factories  on  the  edge  of  town.  At 
the  corner  of  College  and  Zackary  Streets,  a  patch  of 
light  in  a  large  square  house  indicated  that  some  one 
was  stirring  behind  the  blind.  As  John  passed  op 
posite,  the  blind  was  raised  and  a  girl  in  a  night 
gown,  her  hair  in  two  flowing  braids,  paused  for  a 
moment  to  look  out  into  the  night.  Cosmus  stepped 
into  the  shadow  of  the  tree.  The  girl  was  beautiful; 
he  could  see  her  limbs  beneath  the  diaphanous  folds 
of  her  gown,  like  a  nymph's  through  water;  she  was 
almost  a  vision.  He  stood  tremblingly  staring  until 
the  lamp  winked  out,  and  it  was  dark  in  the  great 
house,  too. 

Just  as  Cosmus  turned  into  the  Curtis  yard  a  few 
minutes  later,  he  detected  the  figure  of  Samuel  Curtis 
down  in  the  flats  below,  walking  among  the  corn- 
rows.  Sad  and  strange  as  ever. 

John  lay  awake  long  after  midnight  that  night.  He 
could  hear  clearly  the  throb  of  the  engines,  the  clang 
of  steel  on  steel,  from  the  great  factory  of  R.  Sill  and 
Son  blocks  away  to  the  north.  His  senses  alert,  his 
mind  strangely  pitched  in  a  mood  of  wonder,  as  it 
often  is  at  midnight-waking,  he  felt  a  sudden  warm 
intimacy  between  himself  and  the  unseen  workers  yon 
der.  He  tried  to  visualize  the  great  dusty,  lurid  work 
rooms,  the  glare  of  molten  metal,  the  buildings  tower- 


IRON  CITY  49 

ing  up  in  the  smoke  and  flame  like  shadowy  shelters, 
the  noise,  the  wonder,  the  fatigue,  the  inarticulate 
marvel  of  industry.  He  seemed  to  know  the  men, 
their  mute  loyalty  to  the  task,  their  aching  discontent, 
their  sullenness;  their  dogged  tenacity,  simplicity, 
comradeship. 

He  seemed  to  understand  for  the  first  time  their 
narrowness,  pettiness,  Mightiness.  He  thought  of  the 
college,  dumb  and  quiet  on  the  Bluff;  its  richness  of 
life,  its  ideals,  its  dreams. 

And  as  he  lay  wondering,  his  mind  racing  with 
symbols,  inarticulately  as  waking  minds  at  midnight 
will  do,  he  heard  the  wind  beat  against  the  wires,  in  its 
old  chant  of  progress. 

The  River  of  Wires,  Cosmus  thought,  flowing  on 
and  on,  between  the  cities — between  Iron  City  and 
Chicago,  New  York  and  London — on  and  on. 

And  he  thought,  suddenly  thrilled,  "What  is  the 
River  of  Wires  going  to  bring  to  the  boys  and  men  in 
the  factory  on  the  hill  ?" 

But  when  he  slept  he  did  not  dream  of  factories  or 
cities,  but  of  a  forest  glade,  and  a  girl  more  beautiful 
than  all  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  IV 

COSMUS  put  the  question  guiltily  at  the  breakfast 
table. 

"Who  lives  in  the  large  square  house  at  the  corner 
of  College  and  Zackary?" 

"Carl  Morton,"  Mrs.  Curtis  told  him. 

Strange  to  say,  that  same  morning  in  the  Carl  Mor 
ton  house  at  the  corner  of  College  and  Zackary,  a  girl 
was  asking  to  go  to  college  in  order  to  take  courses  in 
sociology. 

Carl  Morton  was  foreman  of  the  smithy  gang  in 
the  factory  of  R.  Sill  and  Son.  He  was  a  type  of 
man  that  it  is  good  to  see.  A  life  of  labor  had  given 
his  body  a  massiveness  and  symmetry  and  his  face  re 
finement.  He  might  have  been  figured  by  St.  Gaud- 
ens,  to  fit  into  a  drawing  of  industry  by  Fennel.  Of 
English  stock,  he  had  been  brought  to  Iron  City  from 
Yorkshire,  when  he  was  eight  years  old,  a  half  cen 
tury  before,  and  his  services  at  the  Sill  plant  were  al 
most  coincident  with  its  life.  Therefore  he  could  be 
pardoned,  perhaps,  for  his  over-warm  pride  in  the 
Sill  manufactory.  Some  inherited  respect  for  author 
ity,  coupled  with  a  sense  of  proprietorship  in  a  busi 
ness  in  which  he  had  no  real  share,  made  him  an  ar 
dent  supporter  of  R.  Sill.  He  invariably  spoke  of 
"our  plant";  and  he  always  justified  every  arrange 
ment  that  Sill  made  in  his  own  favor  with  his  men. 
Every  morning  Morton  walked  through  the  office  and 
said  "Good  morning,  Mr.  Sill,"  and  got  in  reply  a 


IRON  CITY  51 

brusque,  but  not  unkindly,  "Good  morning,  Morton," 
or  "Good  morning,  foreman."  Morton  never  had  had 
any  sympathy  with  organized  labor,  he  was  one  of  the 
chief  agents  through  which  the  office — that  vortex  of 
mystery  and  authority — worked  in  resisting  the  en 
trance  of  unions  in  the  plant  of  R.  Sill  and  Son.  When 
the  company  was  buzzing  over  the  clash  between  the 
Railroad  Brotherhoods  and  the  magnates  over  the 
eight-hour  plan,  Morton  stood  for  the  railroads. 

"If  a  man  can't  work  ten  hours,  he's  a  weakling — 
that's  all  he  is."  He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height 
and  knotted  the  great  muscles  about  his  neck  and 
chest.  "I  have  worked  ten  hours  a  day  for  thirty- 
eight  years,  and  I  haven't  suffered."  And  then  wag 
ging  his  head  sadly,  he  concluded,  "I  don't  see  what 
the  laboring  man  is  coming  to." 

No  one  who  saw  Carl  Morton  could  question  his 
views.  The  fine  product  of  a  system,  he  and  old  Sill 
were  the  flowers  of  the  feudalistic,  industrial  order 
fast  falling  into  decline:  master  and  man,  the  baron 
and  his  squire. 

But  if  Morton  resisted  any  sort  of  organization 
among  the  men,  he  carried  his  conservatism  no  farther 
at  the  factory.  Like  a  hound,  he  smelt  out  faults  in 
the  composition  of  his  department.  He  improved 
here,  and  improved  there;  he  espoused  the  tactics  of 
efficiency,  and  lived  them  mercilessly,  yet  kept  the 
regard  of  his  men.  He  saw  the  smithy  grow  from 
a  hand-operated  forge  to  the  great,  roaring  furnace 
room  with  ten  forges  and  pneumatic  hammers  that  did 
the  work  of  hundreds.  Every  day  Carl  and  his  as 
sistants  put  into  the  fire  and  beneath  the  great  six-ton 
hammer,  four  three-thousand-eight-hundred  pound 
engine  shafts.  Such  work,  day  in  and  day  out,  amidst 


52  IRON  CITY 

the  white  glare  of  the  forges,  and  the  drumming  of 
the  huge  hammers,  commanding  and  guiding,  flowered 
Morton  into  a  leader  of  men. 

Carl  carried  his  conservatism  into  the  education  of 
his  only  child,  Margaret.  To  him,  the  rearing  of  a 
child  was  simple.  Reared  himself  under  a  somewhat 
simple  regime,  in  an  environment  that  might  be  best 
described  as  pioneer,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  in 
complex  Iron  City  a  hundred  forces  beyond  his  con 
trol  played  upon  his  child,  which  in  a  way  had  never 
touched  his  own  life.  The  movies,  countless  story 
magazines,  innumerable  associates,  a  flux  of  undi 
gested  opinions,  new  standards  of  sex,  new  judgments 
in  religion ;  these,  unreckoned  with  by  the  parent,  were 
calculated  to  offset  much  of  the  old-fashioned  training 
that  Morton  clung  to.  He  believed  implicitly  in  Mar 
garet  because  he  loved  her  madly,  to  a  point  little  sus 
pected  by  himself,  and  because  he  judged  that  his  own 
excellent  example,  and  the  constant  inculcation  of  a 
few  well-tried  maxims,  would  hold  her  true.  "Serve 
God,"  "Mind  your  manners"  and  "Respect  your  bet 
ters"  were  the  elements  of  Morton's  teachings.  And 
it  must  be  said  that  "Respect  your  betters"  received 
the  most  emphasis.  Morton  left  the  first  precept  to 
St.  Luke's,  the  second  to  Mrs.  Morton,  a  frail  woman, 
who  was  a  recent  convert  to  Christian  Science,  much 
to  Carl's  comfort  and  chagrin,  and  the  last  to  himself. 

Hence  he  was  horrified  when  Margaret  came  home 
from  a  party  and  said,  "I  had  five  dances  with  Ray 
mond  Sill,  and  I  think  he  is  horrid." 

"Tut,  tut,  daughter." 

"And  he  flunked  out  at  Yale,  too." 

"What  have  I  told  you,  daughter,  about  respecting 
Mr.  Sill's  son?"  Carl  Morton  did  not  see  the  impish 


IRON  CITY  53 

tongue  thrust  out  at  him  through  his  daughter's  pretty 
teeth. 

•  Margaret  tried  to  obey  her  father  in  all  things;  but 
when  obedience  to  the  axiom  "Respect  your  betters" 
stood  in  the  way  of  membership  in  the  Country  Club, 
and  an  automobile,  she  rebelled.  Her  father,  applying 
his  own  philosophy  to  himself,  hesitated  about  allow 
ing  himself  the  illustrious  privileges  of  automobiles 
and  a  country  club,  questioning  whether  it  became  a 
foreman  of  a  smithy  gang  to  assume  such  airs.  Old 
Sill  himself,  at  one  time,  had  belonged  to  the  Country 
Club,  and  Morton  wondered  whether  it  would  not  be 
an  affront  to  his  master  if  he  belonged.  Margaret 
did  not  care  for  such  twaddle,  yet  she  was  puzzled  to 
know  how  to  encompass  her  designs.  Then  suddenly 
she  discovered  her  father's  loyalty  to  her.  She  fell 
sick  with  a  high  fever,  and  Carl  sat  by  her  bed  night 
and  day,  taking  one  of  his  rare  absences  from  the 
factory,  that  he  might  nurse  her.  One  night  she 
watched  him  through  half-closed  eyes,  and  saw  the 
profound  paternity  shining  in  his  face;  it  startled, 
frightened  and  pleased  her. 

When  she  recovered,  she  again  took  up  the  question 
of  the  automobile,  and  found  him  obdurate.  With 
out  hesitation,  she  went  to  the  Rex  Garage  and  left 
word  that  Carl  Morton  wanted  an  agent  to  call  that 
night  at  seven,  that  he  was  on  the  market  for  a  ma 
chine.  When  the  agent  arrived,  he  inadroitly  stated 
that  "your  daughter,  Mr.  Morton,  says  you  want  a 
machine." 

Carl's  loyalty  to  Margaret,  and  an  innate  fineness, 
kept  him  from  betraying  his  daughter.  He  accepted 
the  agent's  statement,  and  in  a  few  days  Margaret  had 


54  IRON  CITY 

her  car,  and  in  a  few  weeks  the  Country  Club  mem 
bership. 

The  mistake  Carl  Morton  made  was  in  not  taxing 
his  daughter  with  deceit. 

That  had  happened  two  years  before.  The  educa 
tion  of  Carl  by  Margaret  went  on,  and  when  she 
asked  to  go  to  college,  largely  because  the  Theta 
Kappa  Chis  were  rushing  her,  he  did  not  demur,  al 
though  to  him  the  world  seemed  somewhat  strange 
when  the  daughter  of  a  foreman  no  longer  kept  her 
distance  from  her  betters.  And  so  it  was  finally  ar 
ranged  that  she  should  enter  the  second  semester. 

It  was  inevitable  that  John  Cosmus  would  find 
Margaret  Morton  out.  She  was  in  his  elementary 
course  and  he  often  found  her  great  eyes  disconcerting 
as  he  set  forth  the  principles  upon  which  society  was 
based.  He  noticed  her  immediately  the  first  morning. 
Fire  in  form,  was  what  Cosmus  thought  of  first  in 
reference  to  Margaret  Morton.  She  was  not  large, 
but  well  developed,  massive  in  daintiness.  He  loved 
to  watch  her  move  as  one  would  a  fine  animal;  at 
times  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  clean  slender  ankle  and 
the  bulging  calf  above  her  shoe  tops.  The  taut  folds 
of  her  waist  over  a  full  breast,  the  depth  of  chest  and 
the  shoulders  wide  like  a  boy's;  the  movements  of 
well-formed  hips  set  him  to  answering,  deep  within 
him,  undisguised  calls.  One  day  it  became  necessary 
to  meet  her  in  conference  on  an  assigned  topic.  Cosmus 
sat  in  his  office  waiting.  Outside  he  could  hear  the 
water  dripping  from  the  eaves,  and  the  sing-song  of 
the  wheels  from  the  paper  mills  across  the  river. 

All  the  time  that  Margaret  and  John  were  talking 
— surface  talk,  routine  of  school  matters — each  was 
saying  to  the  other  deep,  unuttered,  primitive  things. 


IRON  CITY  55 

John  thought,  "What  great  eyes,  how  exquisitely 
molded  her  nose  and  mouth!" 

They  were  very  happy.  They  seemed  floating  in  a 
great  sea  of  pleasure,  a  sea  that  was  electric  with  cur 
rents  that  throbbed  and  beat  in  one  heart  as  well  as 
in  the  other.  The  same  yellow  sunshine  fell  through 
the  dusty  window,  the  same  shadows  quivered  on  the 
wall,  the  same  sing-song  of  the  engines  came  in 
through  the  window,  the  same  harsh  voices  of  distant 
teachers  beat  in  upon  both  of  them.  It  was  a  day 
very  commonplace  and  drab,  but  to  them  how  differ 
ent;  they  knew  not  that  it  was  drab.  He  watched  her 
lips  perceptibly  parted,  her  lids  fallen  low  over  her 
eyes  as  if  they  were  curtains  to  shut  in  the  out-peering 
soul,  her  startled  breath  moving  the  lace  which  fell 
low  over  a  swelling  bosom.  Images  floated  in  his 
mind  like  music.  He  saw  a  stream  and  two  bodies 
moving  in  unison  with  the  shining  water;  a  garden 
sweet  and  fragrant,  and  they  two  lying  close  together 
looking  up  at  the  flying  clouds;  a  Norwegian  bath 
house,  and  he  smiting  her  flushed  flesh  with  odorous 
pine  boughs. 

She  seemed  a  different  creature,  breathing  marble, 
flesh  surcharged  with  impelling  power — eloquent. 
She,  who  was  so  mute,  spoke  now  in  this  moment  a 
language  which  he  understood  too  well. 

If  any  one  had  looked  in  at  that  moment,  at  No.  12 
Central  Hall,  he  would  have  seen  only  young  Profes 
sor  Cosmus  pausing  in  his  learned  discourse  to  catch 
his  breath  for  a  moment,  and  a  confused  freshman 
girl,  wisely  inattentive.  In  reality  a  man  and  woman 
were  sitting  there  shaken  by  the  eternal  whirlwind  so 
full  of  passionate  meaning. 

"You  see,  Miss  Morton,"  he  was  saying  perfunc- 


56  IRON  CITY 

torily,  "sociology  in  a  sense  may  be  thought  of  as  the 
philosophy  of  philosophy.  The  biologist  makes  cer 
tain  generalizations  about  life,  the  psychologist  does 
likewise;  the  theologian,  the  economist,  just  in  so  far 
as  they  generalize  are  to  be  thought  of  as  philosophers. 
Then  it  is  the  office  of  the  sociologist  to  take  all  of 
these  views,  and  harmonize  them  in  respect  to  one 
unifying  standard,  namely  their  practical  significance 
to  human  society — to  our  living  together." 

Wisely  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  nor  close  her  lips, 
nor  steady  her  trembling  limbs.  She  just  sat  mutely 
calling  to  him.  When  he  stopped  his  formal  discus 
sion,  she  did  not  even  feel  it  incumbent  upon  her  to 
take  up  his  conversation  where  he  left  it,  but  feverishly 
began  to  rattle  off  little  vague  frivolities  incident  to 
school  life. 

"You  see,  Doctor  Wheaton  put  me  in  his  advanced 
French  class,  and  I  have  had  only  one  year."  Cosmus 
thought  she  must  speak  French  delightfully.  "And 
French  is  so  musical.  Did  you  know  that  Professor 
Palmer  is  sick?"  she  asked.  "Isn't  Mr.  Kimbark  a 
strange,  dear,  green  man  ?" 

And  then  they  lapsed  into  meaningful  silence  until 
they  were  conscious  again  of  the  inaudible  world 
about  them,  and  feebly  tried  to  break  the  chains 
which  bound  them,  making  an  effort  to  speak.  The 
words  were  flat  and  blatant  in  their  ears.  She  at 
length  rose  to  go  and  Cosmus  with  an  uncontrollable 
gesture  reached  out  as  if  to  take  her  hand.  He  could 
not  see,  his  breath  struggled  in  his  throat.  He  groped 
for  a  chair  and  sat  down  heavily,  his  face  hooded  with 
his  hands,  his  frame  shaking  as  with  cold. 

He  felt  her  hand  on  his  head.  It  calmed  him.  He 
looked  up  into  her  deep  eyes,  and  saw  her  transformed. 


IRON  CITY  57 

"Why,  you,  you  are  a  woman,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  down  on  him,  and  touched  his  hot  fore 
head  with  what  he  thought  was  indescribable  gentle 
ness.  He  took  her  hand ;  again  they  were  conscious  of 
the  inaudible  world,  eloquent  with  vast  meanings, 
shutting  down  over  them.  John  Cosmus  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  shadows  that  quivered  on  the  wall.  They 
seemed  almost  like  a  coil  of  serpents.  He  dared  not 
look  at  her,  but  he  could  feel  her  heart  throb  in  her 
hand. 

Then  true  to  another  impulse,  he  arose  suddenly 
and  said,  unsteadily,  "Yes,  Miss  Morton,  if  you 
should  take  that  subject,  and  give  it  some  thought,  I 
believe  you  would  find  it  advantageous." 

Mere  trite  phrases  that  floated  in  his  whirling  mind. 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  Morton." 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  the  light  of  the  inaudible 
world  still  on  her  face,  her  eyes  afire,  it  seemed,  be 
neath  her  lowered  lids,  her  bosom  tossed  by  her 
breathing. 

"Won't  you  come  and  see  me  sometimes?"  she 
asked,  and  then  he  heard  her  light  foot  on  the  stairs. 

When  she  had  gone,  Cosmus  looked  at  his  watch 
abstractedly,  and  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  and 
forehead;  he  experienced  a  sense  of  deep  loss,  of 
want.  One  question  stirred  in  his  mind,  "What  am  I 
doing?  I,  John  Cosmus?  ..." 

Margaret  Morton  possessed  an  unconscious  gift  for 
unchastity.  From  some  obscure  ancestor  had  descended 
into  her  all  the  pull  and  witchery  of  sex.  She  be 
longed  to  the  dynasty  of  beautiful  women.  She  was 
two  women.  Her  surface  self  ran  slightly  above  the 
average;  she  was  only  an  ordinary  girl,  prattling  of 
dances,  engagements,  machines,  her  favorite  actress. 


58  IRON  CITY 

Her  unconscious  self  ran  into  racial  deeps;  she  ex 
celled  all  her  friends  in  that  she  had  a  genius  for  at 
tracting  men ;  and  she  never  knew  by  what  power  she 
held  them.  She  knew  she  affected  them  profoundly, 
but  she  did  not  know  just  how  she  affected  them.  If 
she  had  been  called  a  girl  with  a  capacity  for  evil,  she 
would  have  been  as  much  shocked  as  her  father  would 
have  been.  She  attributed  her  popularity  to  personal 
charm.  She  did  not  know  that  she  had  concealed  in 
her  a  mystery  that  had  undone  statesmen,  leveled 
thrones  and  desolated  empires. 

So  she  affected  Cosmus.  In  contrast  to  the  thought 
of  Sarah  Blackstone,  the  thought  of  Margaret  Morton 
made  him  restless.  She  awakened  in  him  moods,  such 
wild  gypsy  longings  that  life  in  Iron  City  suddenly 
ran  stale.  He  wanted  to  be  off  to  another  fatter 
place;  his  work  was  drudgery;  life  a  sham.  And  yet, 
never  to  him  before  had  the  world  of  tree,  sky,  and 
field  looked  so  enchanting.  This  world  was  a  dazzle 
of  changing  loveliness.  How  could  he  endure  so  much 
beauty?  He  felt  stirring  within  an  impulse  to  go  to 
Margaret,  confess  his  love,  and  elope  with  her.  And 
all  this  time,  his  keen,  dry  intellect  sneered  and 
chuckled  over  him. 

About  this  time  he  came  to  know  Ezra  Kimbark 
better.  Kimbark  was  the  Professor  of  English  Lit 
erature,  and  to  Cosmus  the  most  interesting  man  in  the 
faculty.  They  had  met  the  fall  before,  in  a  manner 
that  afterwards  to  the  friends  seemed  dramatic.  Cos 
mus  had  been  caught  in  a  storm  on  the  campus,  and 
Kimbark  appearing  suddenly,  apparently  from  no 
where,  had  taken  him  home  with  him. 

"I  am  Ezra  Kimbark,  and  you  are  Cosmus.  Some 
rain,  isn't  it?" 


IRON  CITY  59 

Cosmus  had  known,  in  that  moment,  that  he  would 
like  Ezra  Kimbark;  there  began  then  that  intercourse 
of  minds  that  men  of  intellectual  tastes  crave  and 
delight  in. 

But  Kimbark  was  not  an  antidote  for  Margaret. 
That  malady  had  to  run  its  course.  One  day  Cosmus 
received  a  note  from  President  Crandon  calling  at 
tention  to  the  unwritten  custom  at  Crandon  Hill  that 
the  instructors  should  not  have  any  social  intercourse 
with  students.  He  had  written  Cosmus  that  while  it 
was,  of  course,  far  from  his  purpose  to  impose  his  will 
upon  another,  yet  he  felt  sure  that  Mr.  Cosmus  would 
be  sensitive  to  the  fine  standards  of  the  institution. 

Nevertheless,  though  not  unconscious  of  the  pro 
prieties,  and  fully  aware  of  the  weight  of  sentiment 
against  his  friendship  with  the  Mortons,  John  called 
frequently  at  the  house  to  see  Margaret.  He  was 
delighted  with  her  father;  Carl's  poise  and  simplicity, 
his  ready  tongue,  and  his  familiarity  with  a  field  that 
is  alluring  to  every  young  man — Big  Business — made 
the  blacksmith  interesting  to  the  teacher.  Cosmus 
accepted  with  alacrity  Morton's  invitation  to  visit  the 
Sill  manufactory — "our  plant,"  the  foreman  said. 

The  presence  of  Margaret  did  not  satisfy.  She  was 
like  some  delicious  poison,  distilled  in  the  blood,  that 
only  blurred  one's  powers.  He  could  not  find  peace 
away  from  her.  He  who  had  not  known  women  was 
at  last  helpless  before  this  girl. 

He  knew  fits  of  depression,  too.  The  world,  he 
watched  with  keen  eyes;  and  he  felt  a  tightening  of 
world  consciousness  in  the  early  months  of  1914.  Was 
it  possible  that  in  this  strange  subjective  passion  for 
Margaret,  he  was  merely  feeling  the  strain  and  tug  of 
the  world  consciousness  ready  to  pass  into  momentous 


60  IRON  CITY 

changes?  There  was  a  furor  of  dancing  all  over  the 
country,  and  Margaret,  unrestrained  by  college  restric 
tions,  tangoed  every  night.  Cosmus  intervened  in 
behalf  of  her  health.  They  quarreled.  She  called  him. 
"an  old  mossback,"  and  he  replied  in  kind — and  then 
repented — and  then  quietly  philosophized  that  the 
dancing  craze  was  but  another  manifestation  of  the 
cosmic  nervousness  of  which  he  was  so  aware.  Strikes, 
vast  aggregations  of  men  in  commotion;  syndicalism, 
socialism,  internationalism,  world  peace,  to  the  keen- 
eyed  student  of  society  were  but  phenomena  that  re 
flected  like  mirrors  impending  cosmic  changes. 

"If  you  want  to  get  spiritual  chorea,"  he  said  to  his 
friend  Ezra  Kimbark,  "pick  up  any  one  of  the  Ameri 
can  magazines  which  purports  to  be  a  review  of  the 
week  or  month;  let  opinions,  controversies,  counter- 
opinions,  hopes,  fears,  discoveries,  scepticism  beat  in 
upon  you,  without  finding  in  all  that  swirl  of  talk  one 
authoritative  note.  What  America  needs  is  a  single 
commanding  voice  in  the  name  of  the  spirit,  and  I 
fear  that  the  very  nature  of  our  commonwealth  for 
bids  its  rise." 

Seeing  so  clearly  the  trend  of  the  world,  and  by 
nature  being  dynamic  rather  than  receptive,  it  was 
exquisite  torture  to  Cosmus  to  sit  still  and  do  nothing. 
Some  one  has  said  that  college  professors  as  a  class 
are  the  unhappiest  individuals  in  the  world;  it  is  be 
cause  they  see  and  can  not  do. 

How  far  should  one  be  docile?  Did  the  analogy 
between  a  mother  and  a  college  hold  entirely?  Should 
one  love  his  college  as  one  would  his  mother,  because 
he  had  no  other?  Was  education  no  great,  vital  func 
tion?  Should  the  college  be  its  own  judge  and  jury, 
always  acquitting  itself? 


IRON  CITY  61 

John's  reasoning  broke  down.  He  was  at  sea.  Of 
this,  however,  he  was  sure — Crandon  Hill  College  was 
not  affecting  the  life  of  its  generation  to  the  point 
of  exercising  social  control.  He  came  to  recognize 
his  malady,  and  resolved  to  shake  it  off,  and  act,  and 
then  fell  upon  him  the  blighting  vividness  of  Margaret 
again. 

Strange  to  say,  in  this  condition,  he  craved  once 
again  the  companionship  of  Sarah  Blackstone,  whom 
he  had  seen  only  occasionally  for  the  last  few  months. 

Yet  he  saw  no  irrelevancy  in  the  fact  that  he  felt  a 
passion  so  low  in  the  physical  order  as  jealousy,  in 
reference  to  a  creature  so  much  a  spirit  as  Sarah !  He 
avoided  her  company  when  he  craved  it  so  much,  for 
he  had  never  questioned  the  truth  of  Mrs.  Curtis's 
insinuation  concerning  Sidney  Haynes. 

One  Friday,  late  in  February,  on  an  excuse  to  be  in 
the  open  air,  he  took  a  gun  and  went  into  the  country 
to  hunt.  Ten  miles  east  of  Iron  City  there  lay  a 
rolling  country  of  uncultivated  fields  and  oak  woods, 
of  a  wildness  which  exhilarated  him.  The  morning 
was  cold  and  brilliant;  snow  lay  in  a  light  crust  over 
the  ground.  Cosmus  walked  briskly.  He  felt  freer 
and  stronger  than  he  had  for  weeks ;  than  at  any  time 
since  he  had  begun  his  strange  relations  with  Mar 
garet,  pretending  he  was  her  teacher,  when  in  reality 
he  was  but  a  lover.  He  saw  little  game,  but  he  tramped 
on  enjoying  the  wild  road  as  it  climbed  and  wound 
through  the  heavily  oaked  hills.  Soon  after  noon  the 
wind  shifted  suddenly  to  the  south,  and  in  an  hour  it 
was  raining — a  warm  rain  for  February,  but  chilling 
to  John  as  he  slushed  along  in  the  melting  snow.  At 
three  he  was  ten  miles  from  home,  in  a  wild  strip  of 
country,  with  the  winter  day,  hastened  by  the  storm, 


62  IRON  CITY 

fast  drawing  to  a  close.  He  had  not  yet  entered  the 
strip  of  heavy  forest  which  he  saw  ahead,  when  he 
heard  a  shrill  whoop  from  behind,  a  cheerful  honk- 
honk,  and  a  machine,  with  lights  aglow,  slipped  up 
beside  him.  It  was  Margaret,  who  had  come  out  to 
look  for  him. 

In  the  car  it  was  comfortable  and  cozy.  Margaret 
could  not  drive  fast  because  of  the  mud,  but  he  did 
not  care.  He  was  glad  to  have  her  beside  him,  in  the 
wiM  romantic  country,  certain  of  her  regard  for  him. 
It  seemed  to  him  a  charming  instance  of  her  growing 
thoughtfulness  that  she  had  come  out  in  the  storm  to 
guide  him  in.  She  looked  more  beautiful  and  more 
dangerous  than  ever  in  her  rubber-coat,  her  rich  hair 
tucked  under  the  round  rain  cap,  its  wet  tendrils  blown 
about  her  flushed  face.  The  jolt  of  the  car  threw  her 
warm,  heavy  body  against  his,  and  he  felt  an  impulse 
to  hold  it  there.  By  this  time  they  were  passing 
through  the  oak-woods.  Cosmus  suddenly  remem 
bered  that  when  he  had  passed  there  that  morning,  he 
had  seen  a  log  cabin  some  paces  from  the  road;  and 
now  he  had  it  on  his  lips  to  suggest  that  they  get  out, 
go  to  the  cabin  and  build  a  fire  to  dry  their  clothes. 

Suddenly  there  flashed  through  his  mind  the  real 
motive  for  that  suggestion.  His  face  flushed.  He 
spoke  almost  sharply. 

"I  must  get  out  and  walk,"  he  said,  without  looking 
at  her,  "I'm  cold." 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  understand ;  then  struck, 
perhaps,  through  the  avenue  of  her  quick  instinct  by 
something  in  his  face  or  manner,  she  answered,  "Oh, 
I  know  what  you  can  do.  You  get  in  the  back  seat, 
and  wrap  the  buffalo  robe  around  you." 

Tremblingly,  he  did  as  he  was  told,  and  they  rode 


IRON  CITY  63 

home  in  silence.  At  the  outskirts  of  the  city  she 
stopped  the  car. 

"I  guess  you  had  better  get  out  here,  and  walk,"  she 
said.  "I  don't  want  President  Crandon  to  fire  you." 

When  he  had  climbed  down,  he  stood  for  a  moment 
with  his  hand  on  the  open  car  door,  trying  to  trace  her 
beautiful  features  in  the  dark.  For  a  moment  their 
spirits  met  in  indissoluble  bond,  then  she  said,  in  a 
tone  that  was  not  strange  then,  but  in  his  memory 
was  strange  ever  after,  "Isn't  it  hard  to  be  good,  e^en. 
when  one  wants  to  be?" 

He  stood  on  the  road  watching  the  red  light  of  her 
car  blur  away  in  the  rain. 

In  that  moment  his  brain  cleared  in  regard  to  Mar 
garet  Morton. 


CHAPTER  V 

V 

A  S  Cosmus  stood  in  the  cold  rain  watching  the 
*  *•  light  of  Margaret's  machine  blur  away  into  the 
distance,  he  remembered  suddenly  that  he  must  go 
that  night  to  a  reception  at  the  home  of  President 
Crandon.  It  was  good  to  get  into  clean  linen,  and  to 
assume  the  respectability  of  evening  clothes.  At  re 
ceptions  Cosmus  hid  his  shyness  under  the  guise  of 
the  amused  spectator.  Cynical,  as  youth  ever  is  when 
it  sees  pure  idea  shatter  itself  against  superficiality 
and  convention,  and  with  senses  alert,  he  watched  the 
life  of  the  whole  college  flow  by  like  a  procession. 

He  had  learned  much  in  six  months  and  he  hac! 
been  disappointed.  Idealist  though  he  was,  he  was 
not  a  thin  idealist,  and  consequently  he  resented  the 
monkish  remoteness  from  life,  the  abject  worship  of 
the  past,  the  class  feeling  of  the  American  College; 
he  himself  was  a  victim  of  it.  As  an  instructor,  Cos 
mus  held  low  rank  in  the  college  life,  and  he  was  never 
allowed  to  forget  it.  Even  at  the  reception,  ladies 
seeking  him  out  in  his  corner  patronized  him  until  he 
felt  complete  loss  of  self-respect.  He  was  made  to 
feel  by  many  of  the  faculty  that  sociology  was  a  raw 
and  untried  subject,  of  such  modernity  as  to  make  it 
suspicious,  and  President  Crandon  never  failed  to  let 
him  know  in  many  various  subtle  ways  that  he  had 
incurred  the  administration's  displeasure  in  his  inde 
pendent  ordering  of  his  own  private  affairs.  Feeling 
himself  entirely  an  outsider,  it  was  no  wonder  that 

64 


IRON  CITY  65 

Cosmus,  as  he  stood  alone  surveying  white  necks 
against  broadcloth  shoulders,  numbed  by  the  chatter 
in  treble  and  bass,  smiled  a  bit  cynically  at  the  scene 
about  him;  he  watched  young  Mr.  James,  assistant  in 
the  chemical  laboratory,  at  one  thousand  a  year,  father 
of  two,  expecting  a  third,  listen  respectfully  to  the 
Professor  of  Latin,  father  of  none,  pompously  expa 
tiate  on  the  evils  of  birth-control,  and  his  sixth  tour  to 
Europe.  As  two  men  passed,  he  caught  a  fragment 
from  their  conversation — it  was  the  Professor  of  His 
tory  defending  high  protective  tariff;  to  one  side  he 
could  hear  the  Professor  of  German  denouncing  the 
"Masses;"  and  the  Professor  of  French  decry  voca- 
tionalism  and  Max  Eastman;  and  above  all  the  other 
voices  there  rose  Dean  Georgia  Summers's,  ecstatically 
chanting  "Music  is  love  in  search  of  a  word."  How 
many,  Cosmus  thought,  of  all  these  masters  of  arts 
were  really  masters  of  anything  at  all? 

The  reception  took  on  extra  interest,  due  to  the 
fact  that  the  president  and  host  gathered  the  men  in 
an  upper  room,  and  announced  that  he  found  it  neces 
sary  "to  intrude  upon  their  merriment  to  transact  a 
modicum  of  business  which  came  too  late  for  the  last 
faculty  meeting  and  was  too  urgent  to  postpone." 
Professor  Reed,  as  secretary  of  the  faculty,  then  arose 
and  read  a  resolution. 

"Whereas  Guy  Street,  once  a  respected  thorough 
fare  fronting  the  campus  of  Crandon  Hill  College, 
had  lately  become  foul  through  Greek,  Italian  and 
negro  tenantage,  be  it  resolved  that  the  faculty  sug 
gest  to  the  board  of  trustees,  as  agents  of  the  corpora 
tion,  to  petition  the  city  council  for  permission  to  close 
Dover  Street,  which  transversely  cuts  the  campus,  in 
.order  thus  to  divert  much  of  the  overflow  from  these 


66  IRON  CITY 

tenements  on  the  way  to  the  factories  from  the  campus 
into  Sixth  Street." 

The  resolution  was  passed  without  demur,  for  in 
structors  had  no  vote;  and  the  social  felicities  were 
resumed.  There  was  music  and  recital.  Dean  Georgia 
Summers  sang  one  of  "Schumann's  exquisite  heart 
songs." 

Sought  out  in  his  vantage  corner,  Cosmus  was 
spoken  to,  though  often  very  briefly,  during  some 
part  of  the  evening  by  every  individual  present.  Hither 
flowed  Mrs.  Dingley,  wife  of  Reverend  Mr.  Dingley, 
a  grande  dame  minus  the  pince  nez,  discoursing  on  the 
"perquisites  and  immunities"  of  a  minister's  wife  and 
the  joys  of  having  once  lived  in  New  Haven ;  elongat 
ing  her  white  arm  toward  him,  she  said  to  Cosmus, 
"You  know  New  Haven,  do  you  not,  Mr.  Cosmus?" 

"No,  I  am  a  Westerner." 

"Oh,"  and  she  passed  on,  obviously  disappointed. 

"I  was  just  saying  to  Mrs.  Reed,"  said  Mrs.  Stokes, 
a  thin  lady  in  black  with  penciled  eyebrows,  "that  the 
new  incumbent  in  archeology  was  a  Dwight,  and  you 
know  the  Dwights,  Mr.  Cosmus,  are  directly  descend 
ed  from  Jonathan  Edwards." 

She  also  moved  on,  and  then  came  Dean  Amos 
Witherspoon,  a  noble  figure  of  Roman  calm  and  quiet 
sadness.  He  spent  five  minutes  explaining  to  Cosmus 
his  plan  of  making  Crandon  Hill  a  rich  man's  school. 

"We  must  do  it;  it  is  the  next  step  in  the  develop 
ment  of  the  privately  endowed  college.  We  simply 
can  not  compete  with  the  state  schools,  and  we  must 
find  a  field  distinctly  our  own  in  education.  We 
must  serve  only  the  best  families." 

Dean  Witherspoon  was  replaced  by  Charles  Henry 
Clarke,  professor  of  history.  Of  all  his  colleagues, 


IRON  CITY  67 

Clarke  struck  Cosmus  as  the  strangest  specimen  of 
the  academic  mind;  he  always  thought  of  him  as  a 
medieval  Tory,  if  there  were  Tories  in  the  middle 
ages.  The  psychology  of  Clarke  was  beyond  his  com 
prehension.  How  he  could  daily  interpret  the  radicals 
of  the  past,  and  daily  reject  the  radicals  of  the  present, 
Cosmus  could  not  see.  It  seemed  to  Cosmus  that 
Clarke  considered  the  middle  ages  a  kind  of  Utopia 
from  which  mankind  had  moved  forwards  like  a  crab. 
To-night  Clarke  said  something  of  the  "lack  of  back 
ground  in  the  West";  he  thought  it  no  wonder  that 
the  students  were  vulgar  and  listless,  for  they  had  no 
appreciation  of  intellectual  things. 

"Just  look  at  the  state  building  at  the  capital,"  he 
exclaimed.  "Actually,  Mr.  Cosmus,  they  have  carved 
beeves  on  its  facade — raw,  beefy  beeves — rather  than 
the  stately  figure  of  Justice." 

Across  the  room,  Cosmus  saw  the  president,  looking 
his  part,  tall,  handsome,  still  wearing  the  mask  of  im 
mobility  behind  which  Hugh  Crandon  lived.  And 
Cosmus  wondered  what  was  the  secret  power  of  the 
man,  what  was  his  ruling  motive  and  hope?  Was  it 
true  that  an  institution  was  the  shadow  of  one  man? 
Hugh  Crandon,  then,  had  a  heavy  responsibility  on 
his  shoulders. 

Like  most  men,  John  Cosmus  saw  what  he  looked  to 
see,  but  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  he  did  not  see 
justly  enough  to  perceive  the  spots  of  color  in  all  this 
drabness.  His  eyes  rested  with  tranquillity  on  the 
young  professor  of  Economics,  his  back  against  the 
wall,  as  if  defending  something.  Cosmus  knew  him 
as  an  incorrigible  democrat;  and  even  then,  he  caught 
his  words :  "The  harder  the  lid  is  clamped  down,  the 
bigger  the  explosion."  Cosmus  was  not  content  until 


68  IRON  CITY 

he  spied  little  Professor  James,  of  philosophy,  disciple 
of  Dewey,  whose  life  had  been  one  long  struggle  to 
interpret  democracy  and  give  America  a  soul.  While 
he  was  thinking  of  these  two  pioneers  of  the  new; 
order,  he  was  joined  by  Kimbark. 

"You're  smiling,"  he  said  as  he  came  up. 

"I  was  just  wondering  what  would  happen  if  a 
faculty  were  suddenly  endowed  with  a  sense  of  hu 
mor,"  Cosmus  answered. 

"Be  sober,  perhaps." 

"Or  laugh  themselves  to  death  at  their  own  collec 
tive  unwisdom." 

"That's  treason." 

"From  me?  There's  something  wrong  with  all 
this.  What  is  it?"  Cosmus  spoke  with  sudden 
earnestness. 

"I  just  heard  Professor  Clarke  say  that  the  Ameri 
can  college  is  being  assassinated  in  its  own  household." 

"By  a  woman,  I  suppose,"  Cosmus  answered  cyn 
ically. 

"You  mean  Sarah  Blackstone?  I  wish  she  were 
here." 

"She  doesn't." 

"Does  she  puzzle  you,  too,  with  her  self  sufficien 
cy?"  Kimbark  asked.  "I  never  saw  a  woman  who  was 
so  utterly  a  woman,  and  yet  so  much  a  man.  You 
know  she  has  been  ostracized  by  her  own  sex.  She 
thinks  too  much.  I  hear  she  is  doing  great  things  at 
the  Iron  Works." 

There  flashed  into  Cosmus'  mind  the  image  of 
Sarah,  as  she  had  stood  that  evening  on  the  hill,  pliant, 
strong,  and  the  memory  of  their  fugitive  understand 
ing.  What  wonderful  power  she  had  to  make  him 
strong!  How  he  needed  her! 


IRON  CITY  69 

At  that  moment  Dean  Georgia  Summers  was 
quacking  in  his  ears.  "Ah,  my  dear  Mr.  Cosmus, 
have  you  heard  that  Dame  Rumor  is  connecting  Mr. 
Boyne's  name  with  Sarah  Blackstone's  ?  Too  bad, 
isn't  it,  that  Mr.  Boyne  is  not  college  bred.  You  were 
speaking  of  the  dear  good  working  men,  I  suppose?" 
she  asked,  including  Kimbark  in  her  stereotyped  smile. 
"Isn't  it  strange  they  persist  in  defiling  our  campus? 
One  would  think  they  would  move  to  some  better 
part  of  the  city." 

Cosmus's  loyalty  to  the  college  snapped  completely. 
There  was  something  wrong.  He  must  find  where 
the  wrong  lay. 

On  his  way  home  that  night,  he  saw  the  light  in  the 
Mather  house,  guarding  the  campus  like  the  torch  of 
ancient  culture,  and  across  the  city  to  the  North,  the 
red  tinge  of  the  factory  over  the  black  pipes,  and  up 
above,  the  line  of  wires  purling  along  between  the 
world  cities. 


CHAPTER  VI 

'TPHE  morning  after  the  reception,  Carl  Morton 
•••  was  to  take  Cosmus  to  the  factory.  When  he 
called  at  the  Mortons'  he  found  Margaret  in  the  ga 
rage  washing  the  machine.  Apparently  she  did  not 
mind  the  cold;  she  looked  robust  and  pretty  in  her 
snug,  red  jersey;  and  for  the  first  time,  Cosmus  no 
ticed  that  wistfulness  of  figure  which  is  the  poetry  of 
girlhood.  He  knew,  then,  what  he  had  experienced  the 
night  before  in  reference  to  her  was  that  she  was  a 
human  soul,  with  its  serious  frailties,  struggles  and 
aspirations,  and  that  she  possessed  something  of  that 
high  spiritual  quality  that  Sarah  Blackstone  had.  He 
wanted  to  say,  "Little  soul,  you  are  safe  with  me." 
Instead,  he  said,  "Were  you  late  for  supper?" 

"No.  Were  you  late  to  your  party?"  and  seeing 
him  shake  his  head,  she  added:  "A  faculty  party 
must  be  funny.  Do  you  dance  or  play  kissing  games?" 

He  was  aware  of  her  vulgarity. 

When  finally  her  father  came  out  and  they  were 
leaving,  she  called  out  after  them,  "I  hope  you  like 
the  bull-dog." 

Carl  flashed  her  an  angry  glance,  as  he  said,  "Mag 
gie,  how  many  times  have  I  told  you  not  to  speak  of 
Mr.  Sill  in  that  way?" 

"How  do  you  know  I  meant  Mr.  Sill,"  she  retorted, 
laughing.  "Perhaps  I  meant  Buster!" 

Night  after  night,  day  after  day,  at  any  moment — 
midnight  or  noon — wherever  he  was,  John  could 

70 


IRON  CITY  71 

pause  for  a  moment  in  work  or  play  and  hear  above 
the  usual  hum  of  Iron  City  life  the  pant  and  throb,  the 
whistle  and  bell  of  the  Sill  plant.  Twice  a  day,  at  five 
o'clock,  crowds  of  men,  on  bicycle  or  afoot,  carrying 
dinner  pails,  streamed  from  its  gates. 

Until  this  morning  that  was  all  that  Cosmus  knew 
of  the  manufactory — save,  of  course,  that  it  occupied 
blocks  of  buildings  to  the  North,  and  turned  its  high 
picket  fence,  surmounted  with  barbed  wire,  formidably 
to  the  world.  What  was  the  motive  power  behind 
this  tremendous  activity?  Production?  Was  it  food 
to  fill  mouths?  Shoes  to  clothe  feet?  Lumber  to 
build  houses?  None  of  these.  The  answer  lay  in 
the  hundreds  of  automobiles  that  lined  Iron  City's 
streets  on  Saturday  night. 

When  man  discovered  the  energy  that  lay  in  wood 
and  coal,  seething  under  water,  he  ushered  in  the  age 
of  steam;  when  he  discovered  that  explosive  power 
lay  in  a  fluid — a  mobile  energy — which  he  could 
safely  carry  in  a  tank,  he  ushered  in  the  age  of  gaso 
line  which  made  possible  the  lighter-than-wood  and 
heavier-than-air  machines.  John  knew  before  he  put 
foot  into  the  office  of  R.  Sill  and  Son  that  no  man 
could  take  in  account  any  national  culture,  art  and 
philosophy  that  did  not  find  a  background  in  the 
great  industrial  order.  R.  Sill  was  re-forming  as  well 
as  clothing  and  feeding  Iron  City.  And  Cosmus  was 
sensitive  enough  to  share  Carl  Morton's  admiration 
for  this  great  throbbing  center  of  life  that  stretched 
its  nerves  out  to  the  cities  of  the  world. 

"We  shall  be  visitors,  and  make  a  complete  tour," 
Carl  said. 

The  office  building  was  a  great  brick,  oblong, 
arsenal-like,  with  awninged  windows  and  a  flag-staff. 


72  IRON  CITY 

In  the  vestibule,  a  girl  at  a  switchboard  near  a  barred 
gate  coordinated  the  life  outside  with  the  many  de 
partments  within.  On  Carl's  magic  request  a  ticket 
was  issued  to  Cosmus,  click  went  the  gate,  and  they 
stepped  into  a  corridor,  connecting  great,  well-lighted 
rooms  filled  with  busy  typewriters;  then  into  a  court. 
It  was  here  that  a  curious  thing  happened.  In  the 
empty  court  they  saw  a  man  in  overalls,  bareheaded 
and  carrying  a  dinner  pail,  rapidly  approaching  them. 
Cosmus's  curiosity  was  instantly  aroused  because 
the  man  seemed  drunk,  or  sick,  or  crazy;  his  intelli 
gent  face  was  very  pale,  and  from  his  mouth  came 
a  stream  of  incoherent  sentences.  Instead  of  passing 
he  stopped  abruptly  in  front  of  the  foreman;  and 
slamming  his  dinner  pail  against  the  wall,  he  began  to 
curse  so  passionately,  yet  quietly,  that  Cosmus  won 
dered  at  the  force  of  it.  He  was  a  powerful  man  in  a 
kind  of  steel-like,  wiry  way;  not  tall  but  admirably 
built,  dark-eyed,  and  smooth-faced.  A  single  lock  of 
gray  hair,  flowing  down  through  jet  black  locks,  like 
a  kind  of  anadem,  and  a  deep  scar  above  the  left  eye 
made  him  particularly  striking  looking.  Facing  around 
to  see  if  he  were  attracting  attention  from  the  office, 
he  stuck  his  face  close  to  the  foreman's,  and  delivered, 
almost  in  a  whisper,  a  tirade  that  was  terrible.  "You 
are  at  the  bottom  of  this,  you  damned  rat.  You  spied 

on  me,  you  sneaking,  dirty,  son-of-a ". 

As  he  stood  there  stamping  and  cursing  there  was 
such  hatred  in  his  face  that  John  feared  violence.  He 
was  surprised  to  see  that  Morton  flinched  under  the 
words  and  trembled,  but  that  he  showed  no  anger. 
Instead  he  tried  to  calm  the  man  by  ignoring  his  mad 
ness.  "Come,  Walt.  This  is  Professor  Cosmus  of 
the  college." 


IRON  CITY  73 

The  man  stopped  short,  and  shot  a  hot  glance  from 
under  his  brows  straight  into  John's  eyes.  John  saw 
his  white  hands — he  wondered  that  they  were  white 
— working  spasmodically. 

"Damn  such  a  school  as  that  is;  it  ought  to  be 
burned  to  the  ground."  Wheeling  on  his  heel,  he 
picked  up  his  dented  bucket,  entered  the  office  and 
was  gone. 

"He's  been  warned  several  times  to  keep  still,"  ex 
plained  Morton,  not  wholly  untroubled.  "He's  al 
ways  shooting  off  his  mouth  among  the  men,  and 
now  they  have  caught  him,  and  given  him  the  walk." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"A  socialist,  probably;  anyway,  he's  been  caught 
several  times  talking  union.  Why  can't  he  leave  the 
men  alone;  they're  satisfied.  We  can't  have  them 
tampered  with.  It's  demoralizing  to  business." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"Kuhns— Walt  Kuhns." 

With  that  Morton  dismissed  the  matter,  and  led  the 
way  up  a  flight  of  steps  to  a  lookout  window. 

As  Cosmus  looked  out  over  the  Sill  plant,  he  felt  a 
thrill  of  admiration  for  all  the  energy  mobilized  in 
this  single  teeming  center  of  trade.  He  saw  a  settle 
ment  of  black,  low  buildings,  pierced  by  thousands  of 
sooty  windows,  stretching  for  many  blocks  to  the 
north,  meeting  on  its  eastern  and  western  rim  a  belt 
railroad,  upon  which  trains  were  moving.  Above 
these  buildings  was  a  cluster  of  tall  black  pipes,  belch 
ing  smoke,  which  even  amidst  the  grime,  strangely 
resembled  the  tubes  of  a  great  organ.  Colossal  steel 
girders  and  huge  derricks  in  the  yards  belittled  the 
locomotives  and  cars  creeping  beneath  them.  Clang 
ing  bell,  shrill  whistle,  snorting  engine,  whirling 


74  IRON  CITY 

wheel,  ringing  hammer  beat  up  to  them,  where  they 
stood  enthralled.  How  vast,  how  powerful,  how 
beautiful!  Who  would  not  thrill  to  be  a  part  of  this 
great  movement  in  productive  cooperation  ?  Had  not 
R.  Sill  been  a  giant  to  build  this  with  the  sweat  of 
his  own  human  brain? 

There  was  pride  in  Morton's  voice  as  he  pointed  out 
shop  after  shop,  this  time-saving  device,  that  wise 
utilization  of  natural  power,  and  in  particular,  when 
he  succeeded  in  making  John  see  the  smithy,  a  squat 
stone  building  on  the  farthest  side  of  the  yards. 

They  descended.  Morton  was  careful  to  lead  his 
guest  into  every  department  of  the  business.  They 
entered  the  pattern-room,  comparatively  quiet,  leisure 
ly,  well-lit;  beyond,  the  core-room,  with  its  well-tended 
garden  of  trenches.  In  the  pouring  room  adjoining, 
giant  kettles,  carrying  tons  of  white,  molten  metal, 
suspended  from  moving  cranes,  glided  swiftly  from 
mold  to  mold,  filling  them.  Men,  like  demons,  pushed 
tiny  wagons  not  wholly  unlike  tea-carts,  filled  with 
the  glowing  stuff,  and  there  where  the  kettles  were 
filled,  a  river  of  lava  danced  over  by  thousands  of 
fireflies  flowed  from  the  furnace's  crimson  mouth. 
John  could  scarcely  tear  himself  away  from  the  fas 
cination  of  this  spectacle. 

Next  they  came  to  the  assembly  room — a  vast  build 
ing  almost  one-third  of  a  mile  in  length  (a  corridor 
not  unlike  our  national  capitol's  in  dignity)  filled  with 
moving  cranes  built  on  a  tremendous  scale.  The  raw 
material  in  the  form  of  heavy  ingots  came  in  at  one 
end  and  emerged  at  the  other  as  living  engines. 

Thence  the  visitor  passed  to  a  smaller  building — 
the  finishing  room.  Here  workmen,  like  gnomes  in 
masks,  scraped  and  brushed  parts  of  engines.  Morton 


IRON  CITY  75 

shouted  above  the  roar,  "We  can't  get  only  foreigners 
to  work  here.  It  gets  'em."  The  forge  room  with 
its  colossal  automatic  hammers,  its  white-hot  furnaces 
and  Vulcan-like  workers  came  next,  and  here  Morton 
had  Cosmus  see  every  detail  of  the  intensely  interest 
ing  work.  What  handsome  fellows  the  smiths  were! 
How  they  belittled  the  work  of  the  mind — John's 
work — at  the  desk  playing  with  ideas. 

Cosmus  saw  it  all :  the  paint-room  where  large  en 
gines  were  sprayed  in  ten  seconds  with  smooth  coats 
of  paint;  the  shipping  room,  the  efficiency,  advertis 
ing  and  chemical  departments.  And  the  last  section. 
The  last  section  visited  was  the  hospital,  clean  and 
white  and  spacious. 

"How  many  do  you  serve  a  day?"  John  asked  the 
nurse. 

"Averaged  80  a  day,  last  year,"  she  answered  with 
a  show  of  pride. 

Eighty  a  day — it  made  John  suddenly  sober. 

Then,  as  if  saying  "Let's  see  the  man  behind  all 
this,"  Morton  led  Cosmus  back  to  the  office,  through 
swinging  doors  of  leaded  glass,  where  they  were  fi 
nally  admitted  to  R.  Sill. 

He  was  not  what  Cosmus  expected  to  see — this 
baron;  from  appearance,  he  little  deserved  the  name 
bull-dog,  which  the  ready  tongue  of  Margaret  had 
given  him  that  morning.  There  was  nothing  in  his 
look  and  manner  that  suggested  ruthlessness,  cruelty 
or  vulgarity — qualities  which  have  been  attributed  to 
the  entrepreneur  of  Sill's  eminence.  He  suggested 
respectability,  quiet  power,  and  a  poise  that  put  to 
shame  the  creature  trembling  and  cursing,  beside  itself 
with  rage,  which  they  had  met  in  the  yard  an  hour 
before.  R.  Sill  was  tall  and  massive  with  a  large  and 


76  IRON  CITY 

fine  head;  features  a  trifle  soggy,  and  eyes  not  too 
clear,  nevertheless  suggesting  strength.  There  was 
no  lordliness  in  his  manner,  no  haughtiness. 

"I  have  just  one  thing  against  you  college  people," 
he  said,  leveling  a  look  straight  at  Cosmus.  "You 
don't  keep  up  with  the  times.  After  all,  a  college  is 
just  another  factory  like  this  one.  The  trustees,  I  take 
it,  are  the  board  of  directors;  the  president  is  the  gen 
eral  superintendent;  you  faculty  are  the  business-get 
ters,  and  the  students  are  the  patrons.  Are  you  all 
the  time  studying  how  to  bring  in  the  greatest  return 
on  the  dollar?  Now,  do  you  people  up  there  on  the 
bluff  have  an  efficiency  department?" 

He  smiled,  somewhat  morosely.  "From  the  samples 
of  your  men  I  get  there,  I  take  it  you  don't.  Do  you 
know,  Mr.  Cosmus,  that  some  of  my  foremen  won't 
accept  college  men  in  their  departments." 

Cosmus  asked  why. 

"They  don't  stay;  they  are  discontented  and  un 
trustworthy." 

This  concluded  their  conversation  but  as  they  turned 
to  go  Morton  tarried  for  a  minute  at  the  mahogany; 
desk.  Through  the  glass  doors  John  heard  the  two 
voices. 

"You  know  about  Kuhns?"  the  foreman  asked. 

"I  gave  orders  this  morning." 

Cosmus  detected  a  new  note  in  R.  Sill's  voice,  the 
husky  quivering  "C"  of  deep  emotion,  ending  in  metal 
lic  hardness. 

"Those  fellows  get  worse  all  the  time,"  Morton 
ventured  to  add. 

"Let  them.  What  have  I  told  you?  Their  efforts 
are  spasmodic,  and  will  end.  They  can't  hold  out. 


IRON  CITY  77 

Everything's  against  them.  We'll  break  them  this 
way  always." 

At  the  door  opening  into  the  court,  Morton  left 
Cosmus,  who  decided  to  take  a  turn  about  the  engine 
room  before  passing  out  of  the  yard-gate  which  the 
workmen  used.  Crossing  the  court,  he  turned  sharply 
to  the  left,  and  stood  marveling  at  the  wheels  revolv 
ing  noiselessly  through  their  magnificent  orbits. 

"May  I  see  your  ticket,  sir?" 

The  voice  in  John's  ear  was  meticulously  tuned  to 
carry  insult.  Looking  up,  Cosmus  saw  a  squat,  heavy 
figure  of  a  young  man  in  a  fashionable  suit  that 
seemed  glaringly  fresh  and  clean  in  contrast  to  the 
surroundings.  His  round,  tilted  head  with  its  coarse 
pompadour  was  without  a  hat;  the  eyes  were  narrow 
and  shifty;  the  nose  pug  and  strong.  A  young  busi 
ness  man's  mustache,  a  gold  tipped  cigarette  in  a 
mouth  of  straight  line;  this  much  John  took  in  as  he 
turned  and  faced  the  custodian.  Coarse,  flat-footed 
independence,  a  kind  of  worldly  charm  and  conscious 
power,  delighting  in  authority,  emanated  from  him. 

He  stood  coolly  sweeping  Cosmus  up  and  down 
with  his  keen  eyes,  carelessly  knocking  the  ashes  from 
the  cigarette  with  a  little  finger. 

"Have  you  a  ticket,  sir?"  This  time  more  patron 
izingly. 

Cosmus  at  once  recognized  old  Sill's  son  and  knew 
that  Raymond  must  have  known  him.  This  was  stud 
ied  insult  then. 

The  two  stood  looking  at  each  other,  aroused  to  an 
tagonism.  Biologists  interested  in  personality  assert 
that  behind  a  single  sentence  may  be  an  inherited  back 
ground  of  special  characteristics.  Was  the  sentence 
that  Raymond  Sill  cast  in  the  face  of  John  Cosmus 
that  afternoon  the  product  of  inheritance  or  training? 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  Sills,"  R.  Sill  the  first  was  wont  to  boast, 
"have  an  instinct  for  strong  women."  It  was  a 
mature  acknowledgment  of  woman's  place  in  his  own 
life  and  affairs.  This  R.  Sill,  the  first,  Raymond's 
paternal  grandfather,  was  a  country  physician — a 
graduate  of  Dartmouth  medical  school  in  the  class  of 
1843.  Like  many  a  second  son  of  a  New  England 
farmer,  he  left  the  homestead  to  take  up  a  profession, 
equipped  with  strong  nerves,  keen  mind  and  a  con 
venient  theology;  no  tenet  of  Calvinism  forbade  saga 
cious  manipulations  of  the  law  of  supply  and  demand, 
or  the  exacting  of  compound  interest.  At  Millers 
Falls,  Mass.,  where  the  young  physician  settled,  he 
found  promise  of  a  fair  field  of  development  in  his 
profession — and  Patience  Conway.  Patience  Conway 
was  the  miller's  daughter.  She  received  silks  and 
satins  every  half-year  from  Paris,  and  she  was  the 
belle  of  the  neighborhood,  pretty  and  substantial.  She 
had  been  to  Boston  to  school.  Dr.  Sill  paid  her  at 
tention,  of  course,  and  they  drifted  into  a  relationship 
that  old  Mr.  Conway,  who  considered  Dr.  Sill  a  good 
match,  wanted  to  force  into  an  understanding.  Sill 
might  have  married  Patience  Conway,  had  he  not  met 
Maude  Randolph,  a  school  mistress  from  the  back 
lands,  whose  birth  was  shadowed  in  mystery.  A 
"strong  woman,"  she  made  Patience  Conway  seem 
insipid.  As  youth  will,  away  over  the  hills  in  the 
doctor's  chaise,  they  went  one  afternoon  before  tea 

78 


IRON  CITY  79 

to  Attleboro,  and  married  suddenly.  Then  by  some 
inexplicable  whim,  some  gypsy  in  the  blood  aroused 
by  romance,  they  never  returned  to  Millers  Falls. 

The  winter  of  '48  they  started  west  in  a  sleigh, 
stopped  off  in  Vermont  to  see  Sill's  parents,  thence 
on  to  Montreal,  to  Detroit,  to  Chicago,  finally  settling 
near  Iron  City,  which  was  called  Nassau  then.  In  all 
that  wild  wedding  journey,  in  the  dead  of  winter,  un 
der  chill  December  stars,  over  unbroken  tracks, 
through  wolf-packed  forests,  in  sad,  silent  places,  the 
doctor  never  once  was  disappointed  in  his  bride.  She 
never  whimpered,  never  complained,  but  arose  every 
morning  ready  for  the  far  places.  At  Iron  City  they 
found  Indians,  a  French  trader  married  to  a  squaw. 
And  a  few  men  from  Ohio  had  started  a  mill.  Stay 
ing  until  midsummer,  the  doctor's  Maude  died  in  child 
birth,  and  was  buried  under  an  old  oak  not  far  from 
the  campus  of  Crandon  Hill  College.  The  doctor 
never  escaped  her  sweet  influence.  It  was  a  tribute 
to  her  memory  that  kept  this  man  lonely  and  single 
until  he  was  fifty  years  old.  What  share  Maude 
Randolph  might  have  had  in  his  subsequent  career  as 
a  financier  can  not  be  guessed.  She  was  a  strong 
woman,  and  might  have  saved  him  from  the  pursuit 
of  power  which  he  now  began. 

Young  Dr.  Sill  did  not  stay  in  Nassau,  but  went 
back  to  Chicago,  and  later  became  a  kind  of  circuit 
physician  throughout  northwestern  Illinois.  Here  he 
laid  a  basis  for  his  fortune.  With  a  keen  sense  of 
values  in  human  nature,  a  steady  temper,  and  ambi 
tion  in  a  country  wild  and  new — what  could  not  be 
accomplished  ? 

He  became  an  incorrigible  backer  of  Illinois  soil. 
He  used  to  ride  along  the  heavy  roads,  leap  from  his 


80  IRON  CITY 

horse,  pick  up  the  spongy  dirt  between  his  fingers, 
press  it  tightly  into  his  hands,  and  wonder  at  its  give. 
"That  is  an  Eden,"  he  would  say,  sweeping  his  long 
arm  over  the  flat  dreary  prairie  land. 

The  inhabitants  did  not  believe  him.  They  found 
the  land  only  a  treacherous  bog,  from  which  lifted  a 
miasma  by  dawn  and  sunset,  that  bred  disease  and 
death.  They  believed  in  nothing;  they  were  incorri 
gible  pessimists,  as  malaria-ridden  folk  always  are. 
Doctor  Sill,  in  his  dry,  casual  way,  later  used  to  say, 
"The  inhabitants  of  Illinois  were  so  full  of  malaria 
that  they  never  needed  to  call  me ;  all  I  had  to  do  was 
to  ride  by  their  cabins  and,  if  their  windows  shook, 
I  went  in!"  For  these  pioneer  farmers,  Dr.  Sill  had 
three  prescriptions;  he  gave  them  quinine;  he  gave 
them  money;  he  dispensed  optimism.  Out  of  the 
saddle  bags  came  a  pile  of  the  drug;  out  of  the  doctor's 
boot  came  the  long  black  purse;  across  the  shrewd 
face  came  the  inevitable  smile.  "That  is  an  Eden," 
he  would  say  over  and  over  again.  And  the  quinine 
and  the  money  and  the  smile  won.  The  malaria  was 
conquered,  the  fields  tilled  and  prosperity  reigned. 

R.  Sill,  the  first,  suddenly  found  himself  an  itin 
erant  bank.  The  long  black  purse  became  an  institu 
tion  founded  on  personality.  The  convenient  the 
ology  allowed  the  physician,  when  he  was  dispensing 
optimism,  to  charge  twelve  and  fifteen  per  cent  inter 
est,  until,  one  day  in  the  early  fifties,  he  found  him 
self  rich  and  looking  for  investments.  His  mind  re 
verted  to  youth,  to  the  wedding  journey  with  Maude 
Randolph,  and  he  remembered  the  rich  timber  lands  in 
Michigan,  through  which  they  had  driven  with  clasped 
hands  under  the  still  Western  stars. 

In  1864,  he  took  two  important  steps  in  his  career. 


IRON  CITY  81 

He  made  his  first  investment  in  Michigan  woods,  and 
he  married  Maude  Stone,  his  secretary.  Maude  was 
never  the  first  Maude  to  him,  but  through  long  associ 
ation  she  knew  his  idiosyncrasies  and  shared  his  aims. 
And  she  gave  him  what  he  counted  his  right  to  have — 
a  son. 

Long  before  1882,  R.  Sill  the  first  had  given  up 
his  practice  and  retired.  He  lived  in  Chicago — a 
backwoodsy  pioneer  type  afloat  in  the  new  great 
metropolis.  What  a  spectacle  he  had  seen!  What  a 
colorful,  various  procession  of  men  and  events  had 
streamed  across  his  retina.  What  a  miracle  to  be 
hold  a  frontier  fort  leap  into  a  world  metropolis. 

About  Chicago,  he  ever  remained  an  eccentric 
figure.  He  appeared  at  the  best  clubs  and  cafes  in 
the  same  old  boots,  carrying  the  same  old  long  black 
purse.  He  was  petulant  and  impudent.  He  thought 
nothing  of  saying  to  a  clubman, 

"I  don't  like  that  tie ;  take  it  off,  sir,"  or  of  squab 
bling  with  the  cashier  about  a  penny,  and  of  tipping 
him  with  a  gold-back.  He  was  rough,  honest,  shrewd ; 
one  of  those  rare  specimens  of  the  individualist  which 
the  frontier  so  often  breeds. 

One  night  in  his  eightieth  year,  he  dreamed  of 
Maude  Randolph,  and  on  arising,  a  prayer  of  his 
mother's  ran  through  his  troubled  brain.  He  wrote 
a  letter  that  morning. 

Two  days  later,  on  May  2,  1882,  to  be  exact,  young 
Reverend  Hugh  Crandon,  newly  elected  president  of 
Crandon  Hill  College,  hitched  up  the  horse  to  the 
surrey  and  drove  through  the  drowsy  streets  to  the 
post  office  for  mail.  Reverend  Mr.  Crandon  was 
already  facing  a  crisis  in  his  affairs.  The  college  was 


82  IRON  CITY 

on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  Founded  by  the  church, 
it  had  served  the  good  purpose  for  which  it  was  in 
tended  by  furnishing  ministers,  and  teachers  to  a 
nation  rapidly  becoming  self-conscious.  The  college 
was  able,  then,  to  adumbrate  America's  crudeness  with 
a  feeble  but  genuine  culture.  But  in  1882,  that  era 
was  closing.  There  were  vague  world-whispers  of 
other  needs  and  moments.  Science  had  brought  new 
ideas  and  tools;  and  a  few  mighty  empire-builders 
were  conscious  of  the  vast  wealth  of  this  America, 
and  of  the  leverage  that  lay  in  cooperation  of  capital, 
in  the  utilization  of  labor.  These  world-whispers 
were  disturbing  to  sabbatical  colleges.  Neighboring 
institutions  had  heard,  and  were  active  in  tapping  the 
rapidly  accumulating  fortunes  of  the  overnight  million 
aires.  Crandon  Hill  College  was  tottering  under  the 
guidance  of  a  board  of  trustees  composed  of  min 
isters  only.  As  Reverend  Mr.  Crandon  rode  along 
through  the  elm  fringed  streets,  he  cogitated.  How 
could  he  re-place  his  present  trustees  with  wealthy 
and  influential  laymen,  and  how  could  he  unite  the 
field  of  education,  the  center  of  light  and  culture,  with 
the  youthful  and  powerful  industrial  aristocracy 
about  to  mature?  And  as  he  cogitated,  an  answer 
was  dropped  into  his  lap.  The  post-girl  brought  him* 
Dr.  Sill's  letter,  and  he  read: 

Reverend  Hugh  Crandon, 
Crandon  Hill  College, 

Iron  City. 
Dear  Sir: 

If  I  give  you  $100,000  could  you  raise  a  like  sum? 
For  God's  sake  don't  blow  about  it.    I'm  that  kind. 

R.  SILL. 


IRON  CITY  83 

Perhaps  it  was  the  grim  Calvinistic  conscience  at 
work  in  Dr.  Sill,  perhaps  it  was  the  memory  of  the 
grave  under  the  oak  tree  near  Cranclon  Hill  campus; 
at  any  rate,  he  kept  his  promise,  and  Crandon  Hill 
College  was  saved.  That  was  only  the  beginning  of 
a  series  of  gifts. 

In  1882  R.  Sill,  the  first,  owned  eight  million  dol 
lars.  He  vowed  that  he  and  his  wife  would  die  with 
out  a  cent  in  the  world.  And  so  R.  Sill  the  second 
became  penniless. 

R.  Sill,  the  second,  was  an  active,  handsome  boy 
interested  in  machinery.  He  turned  his  room  into  an 
experimental  station  for  dynamos  and  engines;  he 
never  gave  his  father  any  trouble.  When  Dr.  Sill 
told  him  that  he  intended  to  give  all  his  fortune  away 
and  thus  set  him  free  to  make  his  own  mark  in  the 
world,  the  son  merely  commented  impersonally. 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  as  much  as  eight  million, 
Father." 

Like  his  father,  he  seemed  more  interested  in  mak 
ing  money  than  in  spending  it.  He  went  to  Crandon 
Hill  College  at  his  own  suggestion,  and  worked  his 
way  through;  and  there  it  was  that  he  met  Patience 
Conway  Wood,  of  Millers  Falls.  It  was  not  until 
several  years  later  that  he  learned  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  Patience  Conway.  She  it  was,  who  dis 
covered  his  passion  for  engines,  and  though  she  loved 
the  arts  and  was  a  musician  and  painter  herself,  she 
advised  him  to  give  up  college.  He  quit  at  the  end  of 
the  freshman  year,  married  Patience  Wood  and  took 
a  job  with  the  then  newly  organized  Enterprise  Pump 
ing  Company  of  Iron  City.  In  ten  years  he  had  di 
verted  the  energies  of  the  plant  into  making  gasoline 


84  IRON  CITY 

engines,  and  he  had  acceded  to  managership  and  pos 
session. 

Everywhere  he  found  helping  hands  stretched 
toward  him;  he  seemed  born  in  the  right  generation; 
he  was  asked  to  swim  with  and  not  against  the  cur 
rent. 

His  particular  virtues — enterprise,  taciturnity,  ex 
pert  knowledge  in  a  new  field,  thoroughness — were 
everywhere  in  demand.  Brother  manufacturers  spoke 
to  him  of  identical  interests;  brilliant  Judge  Matt 
Tyler  went  out  of  his  way  to  talk  with  him  on  the 
street;  Haskell,  editor  of  the  Republic-Despatch, 
offered  him  space  in  his  columns  free,  merely  in  order 
to  boost  Iron  City  business.  Even  the  government 
consented  to  high  protective  tariffs  to  encourage  his 
lusty  business.  No  wonder  R.  Sill,  the  second,  in  time 
developed  a  philosophy  of  radiant  optimism.  He  and 
Iron  City  and  America  were  favored  by  God;  he 
knew,  because  they  all  were  prospering;  also,  there 
somehow  arose  in  his  mind  the  notion  that  business 
was  sacrosanct.  He  thrilled  with  secret  joy  when  he 
heard  enthusiastic  advertising  men  speak  of  the  Ro 
mance  of  Business,  the  Internationally  of  Business, 
the  Empire  of  Business  and  even  the  Religion  of 
Business. 

All  this  was  in  the  first  two  decades  of  his  career — 
the  happiest  of  his  life.  His  son  Raymond  was  grow 
ing  up,  a  strong,  promising  boy,  and  his  wife  had  not 
yet  fallen  ill.  The  novelty  of  commanding  vast  mate 
rials  and  men  and  the  novelty  of  success  had  not  worn 
off.  It  was  just  after  the  Spanish  war  that  he  struck 
his  black  year.  Moving  with  the  current,  pursuant 
of  the  common  policy  of  consolidation,  he  established 
factories  at  Toronto,  Three  Rivers  and  Dallas.  Then 


IRON  CITY  85- 

it  was  that  R.  Sill,  the  second,  first  became  aware  that 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  envy  in  the  world.  A  spirit, 
at  least,  which  he  called  envy.  There  were  persons 
vulgar  enough  not  to  appreciate  the  sacrifices  he  had 
made,  not  to  enjoy  his  success,  not  to  perceive  the 
beauty  of  Big  Business.  These  persons  were  rais 
ing  their  heads  in  politics,  and  they  made  R.  Sill  ner 
vous.  He  was  not  a  statesman,  he  admitted  that; 
he  was  a  specialist,  and  all  he  asked  was  to  be  let 
alone.  In  the  first  clash  with  envy  in  his  state,  he 
lost,  and  he  then  decided  that  it  was  time  to  give  the 
new  menace  careful  attention.  He  gathered  his 
friends  together — Haskell  of  the  Republic-Despatch, 
Judge  Matt  Tyler  and  others,  and  laid  the  situation 
before  them.  They  saw  as  he  did,  the  danger  to  ex 
panding  industry,  to  the  "very  life  of  the  Nation," 
as  Tyler  put  it,  and  they  decided  because  of  that 
phrase,  that  Tyler  ought  to  go  to  the  Senate.  The 
little  matter  was  carried  through  without  a  hitch  and 
Sill  breathed  easier. 

It  was  after  this  black  year,  that  President  Crandon 
approached  Sill  to  fill  a  vacancy  on  his  Board  of 
Trustees. 

"I'll  give  you  five  thousand  dollars  toward  a  busi 
ness  college,"  Sill  told  him,  "but  I  haven't  time  or  in 
clination  to  serve  as  a  trustee." 

President  Crandon  did  not  allow  his  annoyance  to 
be  seen;  he  smiled,  expressed  adequate  regret  that 
"a  business  man,  so  eminent,  and  an  alumnus,  and  a 
son  of  a  noble  friend  of  the  college"  could  not  serve 
on  more  intimate  terms  with  the  institution.  When 
he  learned  that  business  college  in  Sill's  mind  meant 
a  department  of  stenography  and  book-keeping,  he 


86  IRON  CITY 

delicately  steered  clear  of  the  offer  and  the  matter  was 
closed. 

Long  before  Sill  became  delegate  to  the  National 
Republican  Convention  for  his  district,  one  of  the 
way  stations  in  his  career,  he  stopped  going  to  church. 
He  still  contributed  to  Reverend  Mr.  Dingley's  sal 
ary  each  Sunday,  but  he  would  say,  "Mother,  I  am 
tired  this  morning.  You  go."  And  he  and  Raymond 
would  take  the  small  car  and  go  for  a  ride,  or  he 
would  work  in  his  office. 

When  John  Cosmus  met  R.  Sill,  the  second,  that 
February  afternoon,  he  crossed  Sill's  career  when  it 
was  already  past  the  zenith.  Sill  was  a  hammerer  on 
the  will.  He  was  just  a  little  tired  of  life,  and  vaguely 
certain  that  he  had  missed  something,  he  knew  not 
what.  He  still  clung  tenaciously  to  his  optimism;  he 
thought  himself  a  great  patriot;  he  was  a  believer  in 
law  and  order,  but  he  was  not  above  breaking  the 
law,  when  by  so  doing  he  saved  trade,  the  life  of 
the  nation,  from  the  zealous  and  envious;  he  was  a 
good  husband,  a  good  citizen,  a  fair  employer.  In 
short,  Sill  was  a  specialist  with  illusions,  playing  a 
large  part  in  a  large  world,  yet  moving  narrowly  in  a 
little  world,  barren  of  great  ideas. 

Somehow  Sill's  weariness  and  sense  of  loss  were 
connected  in  his  own  mind  with  his  son,  Raymond. 
After  Raymond's  rather  disasterous  career  at  Prepara 
tory  School,  he  watched  the  boy  narrowly  for  signs 
of  revolution.  He  longed  to  see  him  assert  his  will, 
and  make  a  choice  of  a  career.  But  he  waited  in  vain. 
Raymond  was  twenty  before  Sill  gave  up  hope.  Then 
they  had  a  talk. 

"You  must  go  to  work  in  the  plant,"  R.  Sill  told  his 
son. 


IRON  CITY  87 

"Send  me  to  Yale  instead,"  was  Raymond's  an 
swer. 

Sill  secretly  was  so  pleased  at  the  boy's  mani 
fested  desire,  that  Raymond  was  sent, — but  stayed 
only  a  year.  In  the  vague  background  of  that  year 
at  Yale,  which  the  father  later  saw,  a  woman  moved 
darkly,  and  the  boy  came  home.  He  did  not  seem 
even  to  catch  the  subtle  insult  in  his  father's  question, 
when  old  Sill  asked  at  their  midnight  interview, 
"Raymond,  did  you  learn  anything  from  those  aca 
demic  fellows  about  inheritance?  Can  some  old  an 
cestor  from  a  generation  or  more  back  affect  a  son? 
Your  grandfather  was  a  great  man,  you  know." 

Wasn't  R.  Sill,  the  second,  wrong?  Moving1  un 
certainly  among  ideas,  had  he  not  failed  to  see? 
Wasn't  Raymond  after  all  a  Sill? 

R.  Sill,  the  first,  given  the  freedom  of  frontier  life, 
suddenly  expanded  through  native  shrewdness  to  mas 
tery,  into  a  financier.  In  a  half  century,  he  made  and 
dispersed  a  vast  fortune.  R.  Sill,  the  second,  though 
he  treasured  the  illusion  that  he  had  surmounted  great 
obstacles,  in  reality  climbed  an  easy  grade  against  no 
opposition.  He  swam  with  the  current.  Grandfather 
and  father  both  loved  power.  But  no  more  than  did 
Raymond.  Raymond  loved  power  better  than  any 
thing  else  in  the  world.  But  he  felt  unconsciously, 
in  the  capitalistic  world,  which  his  father  had  helped 
to  mold,  certain  centrifugal  forces  of  unexpe^ed 
strength,  and  he  shrank  from  them  and  therefore  fi-pm 
a  business  that  did  not  offer  him  the  expansive  field 
of  freedom  that  it  had  offered  his  father.  To  be  sure, 
Raymond  did  not  reason  about  the  situation;  he  felt 
it.  He  was  not  weaker  in  will  than  his  progenitors; 


68  IRON  CITY 

he  merely  faced  more  opposition  and  more  competi 
tion  than  they  had. 

The  only  other  talent,  buried  in  the  folds  of  Ray 
mond's  personality,  which  might  have  swept  into 
fruition  and  made  him  a  man — was  the  artistic.  From 
Patience  Conway  Wood,  he  had  received  a  love  of 
beauty.  Even  after  she  became  an  invalid,  his  mother 
still  painted.  She  lay  in  her  bed,  a  sweet,  slender 
figure  that  carried  the  fragrance  of  roses,  making 
little  sketches  of  scenes  from  Millers  Falls.  "What 
did  you  daub  to-day,  Mother?"  old  Sill  would  say 
tenderly,  and  she  would  hold  up  some  bit  of  field  or 
wood,  delicately  tinted.  "I  always  try,  Father,  to  make 
trees  just  like  Corot's  but  I  never,  never  can."  What 
impetus  was  there  in  Raymond  Sill's  enviroment  to 
make  him  an  artist?  What  use  had  Iron  City  for  art? 
And  so  he  hid  effectively  his  too  warm  love  of  beauty. 

Raymond  had  at  hand  adequate  instruments  for  the 
expression  of  his  love  of  power  and  his  love  of  beauty, 
now  deteriorated  into  mere  love  of  sensation.  When 
the  big  Stutz  was  added  to  their  garage,  the  boy  was 
almost  satisfied.  With  that  he  could  sweep  over  high 
ways  like  some  great  new  creature  neither  bird  nor 
beast,  drinking  in  color  and  loveliness  in  huge  gulps  of 
power.  But  even  the  Stutz  did  not  hold  Raymond 
entirely.  One  day  he  was  moved  to  confide  in  Mar 
garet  Morton.  "I  think  I've  just  about  got  the  Big 
Chief  in  the  notion  of  letting  me  have  a  plane,"  he 
told  her. 

With  the  accumulation  of  great  capital  had  come 
machines  which  satisfied,  too  easily  perhaps,  the  sense 
of  power  and  beauty.  At  any  rate,  Raymond  was 
a  Sill. 

And  yet,  how  can  he  who  believes  in  democracy, 


IRON  CITY  89 

who  has  come  to  believe  too  in  that  float  of  ideas, 
that  great  sea  of  human  consciousness,  which  in  one 
manifestation  or  another,  we  call  public  opinon,  how 
can  he  doubt  that  Raymond's  environment  shaped 
him,  and  crushed  him  into  that  meanest  of  all  things 
— a  parasite?  Raymond,  a  product  of  the  capital 
istic  order,  had  become  the  chief  element  in  its  dis 
integration.  He  was  the  great  anarch. 

It  was  he  then,  R.  Sill,  the  third,  who  stood  there 
coldly  measuring  John  Cosmus.  And  perhaps  Cosmus, 
through  avenues  of  unconscious  power,  understood 
something  of  what  Raymond  was,  in  lineage  and  in 
effect;  at  any  rate,  he  had  an  impulse  to  strike  him  as 
he  would  a  puppy.  But  the  fetters  of  civilization 
held,  and  instead  he  quietly  handed  out  his  card  of 
entrance. 

As  he  turned  away,  Raymond  said, 

"You  will  need  this  to  get  out,  Professor  Cosmus." 

But  Cosmus  did  not  return  to  take  the  ticket. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

the  engine  room,  where  Cosmus  had  left 
Raymond  Sill,  to  the  yard-gate  it  was  perhaps 
two  hundred  feet.  A  warm  blooded  man  could  walk 
that  distance  in  about  thirty-three  seconds,  long 
enough  for  one,  brimming  with  indignation,  to  store 
his  mind  with  many  images.  A  moving  picture  of 
Cosmus's  mind  those  seconds  would  have  been  inter 
esting. 

Pictures  of  the  factory,  and  workmen,  simple,  child 
like,  weary;  Margaret  dimpling  and  radiant;  Old  Sill, 
not  as  he  had  seen  him,  but  as  he  imagined  his  face 
must  have  looked,  to  match  the  hardness  in  his  voice 
when  he  had  said,  "We  shall  break  them  this  way  al 
ways";  Morton,  faithful  and  honest;  Raymond,  pug- 
like,  sneering,  hiding  his  best  self  in  some  dark  corner 
of  his  soul;  but  clearest  of  all,  Walt  Kuhns,  his  eyes 
deep  and  fine,  a  crown  upon  his  head,  but  with  cour 
age  enough  to  rebel. 

Somehow  as  he  walked  ashamedly  away  from  Ray 
mond  Sill,  Cosmus  felt  very  near  to  Walt  Kuhns. 

He  expected  to  be  held  up  at  the  yard-gate,  but 
when  he  got  there  he  found  the  gate  unguarded;  in 
the  street  a  few  steps  away,  there  was  a  group  of 
excited  men  gathered  around  a  police  ambulance. 
Cosmus  caught  muttered  imprecations  and  a  groan; 
he  saw  the  glitter  of  brass  buttons,  and  police  stars  in 
the  early  winter  twilight.  He  drew  nearer.  Two  of 
ficers  were  lifting  a  man  into  the  ambulance;  the  other 

90 


IRON  CITY  91 

men  seemed  to  be  employees  of  the  Sill  plant.  Cosmus 
heard  the  door  click,  and  saw  the  machine  bound 
away. 

The  workmen  were  returning  slowly  up  the  walk 
toward  the  gate  talking  excitedly.  As  they  passed 
Cosmus,  he  heard  one  of  them  say,  "He  had  the  nerve 
to  try  and  walk  in ;  what  does  he  think  we  are  ?" 

"I  got  him  one  square  between  the  eyes " 

And  then  another  man  broke  in, 

"I  don't  care,  Walt  Kuhns  is  a  good  scout  after 
all." 

The  next  morning  Cosmus  scanned  the  pages  of  the 
Republic-Despatch,  but  he  found  no  word  of  a  fracas 
at  the  plant.  Buried  away  in  the  court  items  he  did 
find  notice  of  a  case  of  the  State  -vs.  Walt  Kuhns,  for 
malicious  trespass. 

Moved  by  a  hidden  bond  of  sympathy  and  by  natu 
ral  curiosity,  Cosmus  resolved  to  call  on  Kuhns  at 
the  cell.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  gaining  entrance  to 
the  man.  Judge  Carr,  who  granted  the  order,  and 
with  whom  he  chatted  a  few  minutes,  seemed  to  see 
nothing  more  in  the  incident  than  bad  blood  between 
some  working  men ;  he  thought  Kuhns  would  probably 
go  up  for  ninety  days. 

When  Cosmus  entered  the  lock-up,  he  had  to  look 
twice  at  the  man  sitting  in  repose  next  to  the  iron 
barred  window  before  he  recognized  him.  Was  that 
Kuhns?  The  light  that  trickled  through  the  windows 
fell  upon  a  face  of  singular  calmness;  the  prisoner  was 
unagitated,  and  filled  with  a  dignity  and  submission 
which  were  quite  noble.  He  did  not  seem  surprised 
at  seeing  Cosmus  and  there  was  no  trace  of  resent 
ment  in  his  voice  as  he  greeted  him. 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  "I  remember,  you  were  with 


92  IRON  CITY 

Morton  yesterday  morning.  Cosmer,  Comer — was 
it?" 

Cosmus  told  him  his  name. 

"You  saw  me  at  my  worst  yesterday.  It's  my  fail 
ing.  I'm  like  that  when  I  get  tired  fighting.  Those 
spells  of  wrath  are  like  drunks,  I  guess.  But  they're 
mistakes ;  they  make  me  less  fit  for  the  work." 

"Would  you  believe  me,  Mr.  Kuhns,  if  I  told  you 
that  I  took  quite  seriously  what  you  said  about  the 
college  yesterday  morning?" 

"What  did  I  say?" 

"You  said  you  wished  all  such  colleges  as  Crandon 
Hill " 

"Yes,  don't  repeat  it;  I  remember.  I'm  not  a  col 
lege  man,  and  perhaps  you  think  I  was  presumptuous — 
that  I  ought  not  to  judge " 

He  paused,  as  if  recollecting, 

"Mr.  Cosmus,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I'd  like  to  make 

you  see  this  thing  as  we  do.  It's  a  long  story " 

he  paused  and  seemed  to  hesitate.  Then  feeling  the 
interest  and  sympathy  in  Cosmus's  manner,  he  went 
on  again.  "Let  me  tell  you  a  little  incident — one  of 
the  things  which  has  made  me  feel  as  I  do 

"Can  you  see  a  room  in  a  miner's  hut  on  a  late 
spring  night  ?  A  man  is  sitting  there  with  grave,  thin 
face  and  burning  eyes,  writing.  He  has  just  given 
orders  to  the  striking  miners  to  resist  the  militia.  It 
has  hurt  him  to  do  it  because  he  is  an  idealist,  and 
hates  bloodshed,  and  all  these  men  are  his  comrades; — 
he  has  worked  in  the  mines  with  many  of  them.  There 
is  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  he  says,  like  a  friend,  'Come 
in.'  A  man  dressed  in  cool  flannels,  and  a  lieutenant 
of  the  guards  enter.  The  man  is  from  Pittsburgh — 
of  the  higher-ups ; — he  believes  as  they  all  believe,  that 


IRON  CITY  93 

every  man  has  his  price.  He  is  carrying  a  satchel 
crammed  with  bills  of  large  denominations  and  gold 
coin.  He  has  come  to  buy  out  the  leader  of  the 
miners;  he  wants  him  to  sell  out  his  comrades.  The 
higher-up  takes  a  chair;  the  two  men  talk;  they  even 
laugh;  they  touch  on  every  subject  imaginable  but 
not  once  upon  the  subject  nearest  them.  Why  doesn't 
the  Higher-up  get  busy?  Why  doesn't  he  open  the 
mouth  of  his  satchel  and  pour  its  glittering  contents 
upon  the  bare  table?  He  doesn't,  he  is  sizing  up  his 
man.  He  is  using  strategy;  all  the  time  the  Master 
is  calm,  courteous,  sincere.  Presently  the  Higher-up 
gets  up  and  it  looks  as  though  he  were  going  to  open 
his  satchel.  But  he  doesn't.  Instead,  he  puts  on  his 
hat,  shakes  hands  with  the  leader,  takes  his  satchel 
and  goes  out.  Pie  is  beaten.  For  once  he  finds  a 
man  who  has  no  price ;  he  did  not  even  open  his  propo 
sition.  The  lieutenant  of  the  guards  stays;  he  goes 
to  the  leader  and  shakes  his  hand;  but  that  is  not 
enough;  he  says  something.  It  is  this,  T  promise  to 
resign  from  the  guard,  and  enlist  with  you !'  ' 

John  Cosmus  filled  the  pause  with  a  question,  "He 
kept  his  word,  of  course?" 

"I  am  that  lieutenant,"  Kuhns  answered.  "I  was  a 
boy  then.  I  enlisted  in  the  militia  for  a  lark,  and  it 
was  no  lark.  That  fall  I  should  have  entered  a  semi 
nary  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  church.  I  didn't, 
and  I  am  not  sorry.  I  am  in  a  nobler  army,  a  higher 
church." 

The  eyes  of  Walt  Kuhns  burned,  but  he  showed 
no  other  signs  of  excitement.  He  was  calm  and  un 
affected.  These  statements  seemed  from  him  the 
merest  commonplaces. 


94  IRON  CITY 

"It  is  great  to  work  with  a  man  like  the  Master. 
He  says  that  each  one  of  us  is  a  pioneer,  a  Columbus. 
We  are  in  the  van  of  democracy.  He  offers  no  re 
ward  save  the  service.  What  he  did  for  the  Higher- 
up,  he  does  for  all  men;  he  impresses  them  with  his 
nobility,  and  honesty.  He  is  another  Lincoln  it  seems 
to  me,  an  obscurer  Lincoln." 

"Is  this  war  so  large?" 

"Large?  Why,  friend,  when  the  first  blood  was 
spilt  on  the  bodies  that  were  brought  in,  it  seemed  to 
me,  after  having  seen  the  Master,  that  this  skirmish 
was  greater  than  Bull  Run." 

Cosmus  was  thinking  of  R.  Sill  when  he  asked  the 
next  question, 

"And  the  movement  is  not  sporadic  ?" 

"The  Master  does  not  say  much  when  he  is  moved 
deeply,  but  that  night  as  he  cowered  over  the  body  of 
a  comrade,  he  said,  'It  is  a  holy  thing  to  die  for  lib 
erty!'  When  a  man  talks  like  that" — Kuhns  finished 
with  a  gesture. 

"I  see,"  said  Cosmus. 

When  Cosmus  had  left  Walt  Kuhns  and  found  the 
street,  Iron  City  life  was  at  its  flood.  Machines  were 
honking,  newsboys  crying  extras,  shoppers  carrying 
their  packages,  children  in  carriages,  all  were  hurrying 
past  in  prosperity,  peace — and  indifference. 

John  Cosmus,  a  student  of  society,  was  thinking 
of  two  faces,  the  face  of  R.  Sill  as  it  must  have  looked 
when  he  said,  "We  shall  break  them  in  this  way  al 
ways,"  and  the  face  of  Walt  Kuhns  when  he  had  re 
peated  his  master's  words,  "It  is  a  holy  thing  to  die 
for  liberty." 

Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  received  an 


IRON  CITY  95 

answer  from  Kuhns  to  his  question,  "What  of  the 
college  ?" 

Here  was  a  pretty  problem,  indeed,  for  a  student  of 
society. 


CHAPTER  IX 

T  N  June,  after  the  close  of  the  first  year  at  Crandon 
•*•  Hill  College,  John  Cosmus  went  to  Lake  Kee- 
wasee,  near  to  the  capital  of  a  neighboring  state,  for 
the  summer.  Here  was  the  middle  west  at  its  fairest; 
leagues  of  blue  water,  green  rolling  fields,  commodious 
farms,  golden  harvest  fields  upon  which  the  visitor 
suddenly  emerged  from  coverts  of  deep,  cool  woods, 
amber-dim,  rich  with  the  hum  of  bees.  Here  was 
range  enough  for  his  cramped  spirits  and  mind;  he 
could  regain  normality  and  adjust  perspectives.  Os 
tensibly  he  had  decided  on  this  retreat  to  write  his 
Book,  "Theory  of  the  Standardization  of  Wages," 
but  in  the  first  weeks  he  slept,  ate,  swam,  played  ten 
nis,  or  loafed  with  the  imperturbable  animals. 

He  liked  to  cast  his  eyes  over  the  fifteen  miles  of 
blue  water  to  the  city  at  the  side  of  the  lake,  where 
rose  the  capital  like  a  marble  lily;  not  far  beyond, 
peeping  above  the  trees,  were  the  towers  of  the  Uni 
versity.  A  boat  from  the  city  with  a  faint  flavor 
of  habitations,  business  and  the  world  of  men,  stopped 
at  the  pier  before  the  Burkhardt  cottage  every  morn 
ing  to  bring  mail  and  papers. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adolph  Burkhardt  and  their  two 
young  sons  Karl  and  Gustav,  were  his  hosts.  He  had 
met  Mr.  Burkhardt  in  a  Chicago  reference  library, 
struggling  with  a  book  on  business  psychology.  Burk 
hardt  was  a  mild,  self-conscious,  little  man,  a  first  vio 
linist  in  the  Symphony  Orchestra. 

96 


IRON  CITY  97 

"Perhaps,  you  can  help  me  with  this,"  he  had  said 
to  Cosmus,  placing  a  page  on  "Sensation"  before  the 
student.  "I  can't  understand  Miinsterberg — in  Eng 
lish.  You  see  I  must  be  more  practical  in  America 
and  so  I  take  a  course  in  beesiness  at  the  University." 

Burkhardt's  self-conscious  effort  to  become  prac 
tical  was  the  evidence  of  his  impracticality.  But  he 
was  generous,  kind  and  hospitable.  His  love  of  music 
was  unaffected,  and  his  loyalty  to  Cosmus  genuine. 
Mrs.  Burkhardt  was  motherly  and  refined;  the  sons, 
Karl  and  Gustav,  were  two  young  Indians,  who  pre 
ferred  any  sport  to  music,  and  often  used  Cosmus 
as  a  buffer  against  their  ardent  father.  They  did  not 
want  to  practice,  but  they  always  did.  Day  and  night 
Cosmus  heard  the  scrapings  of  the  violin.  Sometimes 
the  father  would  improvise  little  vagrant  melodies  that 
caught  the  very  spirit  of  the  place — harvest  fields,  lit 
tle  crinkly  waves,  and  swirling  leaves;  or  he  would 
draw  the  face  of  night  itself  in  his  great  sweet  sound 
waves.  One  favorite  piece  that  he  loved,  and  which 
he  played  well,  too,  was  Massenet's  "Elegie."  Often 
before  sleep  came,  Cosmus  in  his  cottage  adjoining 
heard  the  first  breathing  of  this  great  song.  He 
always  saw  a  procession  of  women  mourning,  the  pro 
cession  of  the  ages,  passing  through  desolate  streets 
of  desolate  towns.  Adolph  never  played  this  save 
at  night;  it  was  then  that  Cosmus  was  most  glad  for 
the  music.  Sometimes  in  the  midst  of  morning  work 
it  was  disconcerting. 

Cosmus  thought  most  of  Margaret  Morton  in  such 
moments  as  the  "Elegie"  inspired.  Margaret's  wom 
anliness  in  spite  of  her  youth,  maternity  shadowed 
deep  beneath,  linked  her  with  the  profound.  When 
he  had  left  her  some  weeks  before,  they  had  been  on 


98  IRON  CITY 

no  different  basis.  He  had  asked  her  to  write  and 
she  had  given  no  definite  promise.  "I'll  send  you  a 
postal  from  Pike  Lake.  Raymond  and  I  are  going 
there  to  a  house-party,  you  know."  She  had  not  sent 
a  letter  or  a  postal.  Cosmus,  in  a  spirit  of  banter,  had 
been  sending  her  postal  cards  ever  since.  When  he 
was  in  the  city  he  sought  out  the  gayest  conceits,  as 
he  would  for  a  child.  After  all,  wasn't  that  what  his 
changed  relations  with  Margaret — since  that  night 
when  she  had  picked  him  up  in  her  machine — meant? 
Hadn't  he  found  the  child  in  her?  Somehow  he  had 
never  since  been  so  shaken  by  the  winds  of  passion. 
Still  Margaret  was  for  the  night.  She  haunted  the 
moonlit  wood,  bent  above  him  in  the  lake;  her  body 
must  have  slept  on  that  tuft  of  moss ;  his  drowsy  head 
must  have  been  pillowed  on  her  bosom.  The  earth- 
deep  witchery  of  sex  crossed  darkened  distances;  ab 
sence  only  sharpened  desire,  however  chastened  by  the 
soul. 

Margaret  for  the  night,  and  Sarah  for  the  day. 
Cosmus  had  left  Iron  City  one  June  morning  by  the 
electric.  He  was  glad  to  go — "darned  glad" — as  he 
told  Kimbark,  who  was  to  study  in  France  that  sum 
mer — for,  although  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Curtis  were  kind 
to  him,  Cosmus  was  not  happy  in  Iron  City.  The 
straightened,  artificial  life  shut  down  on  him  like  a 
prison.  As  the  car  sped  North  past  the  Crandon  Hill 
Iron  Works,  he  saw  Sarah  at  an  awninged  window, 
evidently  superintending  the  placing  of  more  window 
boxes,  gay  with  geraniums.  A  desire  to  see  her  be 
fore  he  left,  seized  him.  He  signaled  the  motorman, 
and  left  the  interurban  at  the  next  corner.  He  never 
had  any  trouble  in  being  direct  with  Sarah. 


IRON  CITY  99 

"I  am  going  away  for  the  summer;  may  I  write?" 
he  asked. 

She  flashed  him  a  look  of  such  friendliness  that  Cos- 
mus  for  a  moment  imagined  that  it  was  tender. 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  would,"  she  answered. 

Then  he  did  not  stay.  He  plead  some  errand,  and 
walked  the  streets  about  the  factory  waiting  for  the 
next  car. 

They  had  been  writing  all  summer  in  an  irregular 
fashion.  Whatever  whim  or  mood  dictated,  they  put 
down  on  paper  and  sent.  Sometimes  Cosmus  drew 
pictures  to  illustrate  his  own  wit  and  humor.  Some 
times  he  culled  paragraphs  from  his  "Theory  of  Stand 
ardization  of  Wages"  and  sent  them  intact;  once  he 
sent  her  a  red-clover  blossom,  and  she  replied  with  a 
leaf.  In  return  she  sent  him  newspaper  clippings  and 
once  a  poem  which  had  pleased  her.  Her  letters  were 
always  vivid,  gay,  penetrative,  impersonal.  She  con 
nected  him  with  the  outer  world;  occasionally  there 
was  a  reference  to  the  heat  and  the  men  sweating  at 
the  machines;  she  told  him  of  her  successful  effort  to 
get  Mr.  Boyne  to  install  motor-driven  fans  in  all  de 
partments,  etc.,  etc.  Her  letters  would  not  let  him 
forget  the  submerged  struggle  between  Walt  Kuhns 
and  R.  Sill,  the  second. 

One  day,  pondering  on  Walt  Kuhns,  Cosmus  sud 
denly  saw  what  he  thought  was  a  solution  to  the  prob 
lem.  He  wrote  to  Sarah  Blackstone : 

"Here  we  moderns  are  utterly  neglectful  of  the 
most  powerful  instrument  in  the  hands  of  society — the 
float  of  ideas,  which  is  the  sum  total  of  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  men.  The  sea  of  accumulated  con 
sciousness  is  society;  it  affects  men  against  their  will 
penetrating  to  the  sub-conscious.  Through  it,  men 


ioo  IRON  CITY 

become  automatons.  Once  in  a  generation,  this  force 
breathes  through  a  nation  in  time  of  war,  and  we  see 
men,  the  creatures  of  this  Great  Spirit,  throw  them 
selves  willingly  into  the  abyss  of  death.  The  problem 
is  to  get  men  to  feel  the  Spirit  in  time  of  peace.  The 
problem  in  a  democracy  is  to  let  loose  this  wash  of 
ideas,  without  despotic  control  of  press  and  school. 
Indeed  this  great  float  of  ideas  is  the  only  medium  in 
which  democracy  can  exist. 

"When  I  look  at  America,  the  sanctuary  of  national 
faith,  fragmentized  by  scores  of  aliens,  broken  into 
political  parties,  criss-crossed  by  feuds  between  labor 
and  capital,  cut  into  fifty  commonwealths,  I  wonder 
how  we  can  ever  imagine  that  we  have  a  democracy. 

"We  are  children  yet  in  our  understanding  of  this 
great  instrument,  which  is  mastering  us,  but  which 
we  may  master.  The  thoughtful,  the  creative  minds, 
must  fill  the  strategic  positions  of  the  world  in  order 
consciously  to  control  this  solution  of  ideas,  not  for 
themselves  but  for  society. 

"In  other  words,  the  next  great  movement  of  so 
ciety,  as  I  see  it,  is  from  an  ego-  and  class-centric  into 
a  socio-centric  world. 

"R.  Sill  is  ego-centric ;  Walt  Kuhns,  perhaps,  is  ego 
centric;  President  Hugh  Crandon  is  ego-centric; — 
(more  the  shame,  for  the  college,  now  groping  for  a 
mission  in  the  world,  should  serve  to  usher  the  nation 
peacefully  into  a  socio-centric  era) — all  are  shut  up 
in  their  stifling  class  worlds,  gasping  for  the  larger 
spaces  of  a  socialized  world. 

"In  this  way  we  will  achieve  this  democracy.  This 
is  America's  job,  and  the  fact  is,  that  when  we  stand 
for  this  kind  of  democracy  we  are  pleading  for  in 
ternationalism,  too,  the  ultimate  world-consciousness." 


IRON  CITY  101 

Sarah's  letter  in  reply  contained  one  sentence — a 
personal  one — which  made  Cosmus  think.  "Your  let 
ter,"  she  had  written,  "cheered  my  day."  He  got  a 
vision  of  her  straight,  strong  figure,  and  he  wondered 
if  Sarah  ever  needed  cheering.  She  seemed  so  self- 
contained.  Was  she  after  all  often  weary?  Did  she 
go  home  from  the  stifling  office  tired  and  broken  ?  He 
tried  to  fancy  Sarah  weary — crumpled,  perhaps,  and 
depressed.  He  was  filled  with  shame.  He  was  here 
where  it  was  cool,  thinking ;  she  was  there  in  the  heat, 
doing.  Something  of  the  loveliness  and  need  of  the 
woman  became  clear  to  him.  He  knew  an  impulse  to 
take  her  in  his  arms ;  to  make  her  his  child  too.  .  .  .; 

The  morning  that  the  news  of  the  invasion  of  Bel 
gium  reached  Cosmus,  he  was  thinking  that  he  had 
never  seen  so  peaceful  a  world.  He  had  arisen  earlier 
than  usual  and  had  gone  before  dawn  through  the 
dewy  woods  up  through  the  newly-cut  fields,  where 
the  wheat  stood  gold  in  the  shock,  the  pigs  grunted 
and  chickens  clattered  comfortably.  A  farm-girl  and 
boy  were  starting  off  to  the  barn  with  pails  and  a 
man  hallooed  melodiously  to  a  neighbor  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away.  The  sun  burst  up  out  of  the  lake,  and 
he  watched  it  mount  the  dome  of  the  capitol  until  it 
flashed  on  the  gold  image  of  justice  at  the  far  top.  In 
that  moment  Cosmus  experienced  again  the  sense  of 
identity  with  the  earth,  with  the  general  life  of  the 
people,  and  with  this,  his  country,  and  as  he  stood, 
there  at  the  farthest  mist-robed  hill,  the  River  of 
Wires  glinted  in  the  sun. 

When  he  got  back  to  the  cottage,  the  mail  boat  had 
just  come  to  the  Burkhardt  pier.  Adolph  was  stand 
ing  with  trembling  hands  and  livid  face,  scanning  the 
first  page  of  the  paper.  He  turned  to  Cosmus.  "Der 


102  IRON  CITY 

must  be  some  meestake — some  meestake,"  he  said,  still 
pondering  over  the  paper. 

Cosmus  read  as  in  a  dream.  Adolph  Burkhardt 
went  mechanically  into  the  house,  and  soon  Cosmus 
heard  the  strains  of  "Elegie" — the  procession  of 
women  mourning  through  desolate  streets  of  war- 
emptied  towns. 

Cosmus  read  the  paper  greedily  inside  and  out  where 
he  stood,  and  then  he  went  back  to  the  cottage.  It 
was  not  the  same  world  that  he  had  moved  so  con 
fidently  in  a  moment  before. 

Student  that  Cosmus  was,  familiar  as  he  was  with 
the  situation  in  Europe,  the  initial  impression  of  the 
unreality  of  the  war  never  left  him.  It  was  a  dream 
no  more  real  than  the  flow  of  images  inspired  by 
Adolph's  music.  He  consciously  tried  to  bring  his 
mind  to  bear  upon  it  as  a  reality — an  event  at  that  mo 
ment  enacting;  he  tried  to  close  his  eyes  and  force 
his  imagination  to  see  the  imperial  army  like  a  gray 
mist  floating  down  over  Belgium — every  soldier  iden 
tical  with  the  rest,  a  tin  cup  as  the  paper  said,  "dan 
gling  at  the  same  identical  angle  from  each  soldier's 
belt."  But  he  could  not.  War  could  not  be,  this  was 
merely  some  gigantic  cinema  unrolling  before  his  eyes 
— not  reality — not  the  actual  drama  of  modern  civil 
ization.  The  world  was  too  far  advanced  for  that; 
the  soldiers  themselves  would  come  to  their  senses  in 
time;  the  socialists  would  save  the  day;  this  would 
stop!  But  it  went  on. 

The  next  morning  unwonted  constraint  hung  over 
the  Burkhardt  household.  There  was  no  practicing  of 
music ;  by  unseen  power  of  gravitation  the  whole  fam 
ily,  including  Frau  Burkhardt  and  Cosmus,  were 
drawn  to  the  pier  to  await  the  coming  of  the  boat 


IRON  CITY  103 

"Any  extras?"     Cosmus  called  out  to  the  boatman. 

"None  this  morning." 

They  had  to  be  content  with  one  paper.  Breakfast 
went  cold  on  the  table.  They  shared  the  sheet  in 
silence,  and  then  sat  down  to  eat.  Unable  to  think 
through  this  catastrophe,  one  by  one  they  fell  back 
upon  their  instincts. 

"Dis  German  Armee,"  Herr  Burkhardt  volunteered, 
"ist  one  fine  machine,  hain't  it?" 

Cosmus  thought  that  the  eyes  of  his  host  had  never 
looked  so  small,  and  yes,  overnight  they  had  grown 
cunning,  and  his  spine-thick  face,  coarse  and  greasy. 
He  did  not  answer  Burkhardt's  question;  something 
inhibited  complete  acquiescence.  He  tried  to  bring 
his  mind  around  to  the  scholarly  ideal  of  neutrality; 
he  wanted  to  weigh  each  side,  and  arrive  at  a  just  con 
clusion,  but  something  within  him  rebelled;  a  deeper 
something  recoiled  in  horror  at  the  sight  of  conquest 
and  devastation. 

When  Adolph  said  again,  "It  was  Russia;  she  has 
been  planning  this  for  years.  Germany  will  save  the 
world  from  the  Bear,"  Cosmus  answered,  "Belgium 
attacked  Germany,  I  suppose?" 

When  Sunday  came  they  were  left  without  a  paper. 
The  mail  boat  did  not  make  the  trip.  Cosmus  ac 
tually  suffered.  He  could  not  understand  how  news 
from  Europe  had  become  so  important  in  his  eyes. 

He  remembered  the  Balkan  Wars  in  1907,  and  how 
they  scarcely  ruffled  the  surface  of  public  opinion  in 
America.  But  this  was  different.  He  did  not  have 
to  be  very  wise  to  deduce  that  this  war  was  destined 
to  change  the  very  fabric  of  the  world,  to  reach  out 
and  touch  him  directly,  to  modify  Iron  City  and 
America.  All  morning  he  was  restless.  He  tried  to 


104  IRON  CITY 

read,  or  to  write.  He  abandoned  tennis  with  Karl 
because  it  was  too  hot.  At  noon  he  decided  to  walk 
over  to  the  Boy's  camp,  a  mile  distant,  to  borrow  a 
paper.  Arriving  there  he  was  again  disappointed; 
they  had  been  into  town  but  had  been  unable  to  buy 
a  single  paper.  Vague  rumors  were  afloat.  The  Ger 
mans  were  in  Brussels  and  some  said  that  there  had 
been  a  great  sea-battle  which  left  the  Prussian  fleet 
free  to  bombard  London ;  their  cavalry  were  even  ap 
proaching  Paris. 

Cosmus  went  back  to  the  Burkhardt  cottage.  On 
the  porch  Frau  Burkhardt  was  reading  a  German 
Bible;  she  looked  up,  her  kind  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Oh,  Johnny,"  she  said,  "I  wish  it  hadn't  come. 
It's  so  useless." 

By  evening  Cosmus  felt  he  must  have  news.  The 
lights  of  the  city  winked  on  one  by  one ;  Cosmus  was 
sure  that  some  terrible  thing  was  impending.  He 
asked  Frau  Burkhardt  if  she  thought  it  foolish  for 
him  to  walk  to  the  city. 

"I  need  exercise,"  he  said. 

She  told  him  to  go.  The  still  road  followed  the 
lake;  now  and  then  he  met  an  automobile;  but,  walk 
ing,  he  had  time  to  think,  and  as  he  walked  he  became 
calmer,  more  dispassionate  and  less  fanciful.  About 
ten  o'clock  he  caught  a  car  at  the  outskirts  of  the  city 
and  rode  down  town.  At  the  Journal  office  he  found 
turmoil,  but  he  succeeded  in  getting  a  paper.  There 
was  no  news;  the  situation  on  the  Belgian  front  re 
mained  unchanged. 

The  next  morning,  Cosmus  did  not  go  back  to  the 
Burkhardt  cottage.  He  wrote  an  elaborate  letter,  ex 
plaining  his  need  to  do  some  work  in  the  University 
library. 


IRON  CITY  105 

As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  work  in  the  library 
for  him  to  do.  He  was  bent  on  finding  out  the  truth 
behind  the  war.  He  began  a  systematic  study  of  Eu 
rope  of  the  nineteenth  century.  That  became  his  sum 
mer's  task.  Day  after  day  went  by  in  August  and 
September,  and  he  was  there  turning  over  many  books 
and  periodicals.  He  did  not  allow  the  heated  current 
articles  which  were  beginning  to  flood  periodical  litera 
ture,  to  prejudice  him.  He  read  the  books  that  were 
conceived  and  written  before  1914.  Books  on  Ger 
man  education,  books  on  German  philosophy,  books 
on  German  trade  theories  and  practices,  appraisals  of 
German  literature;  German  socialism  and  state  theo 
ries;  lives  of  Krupp,  Ballin,  and  the  Hohenzollerns ; 
German  art  and  religion — these  books  were  studied, 
mastered.  As  he  read,  three  truths  began  to  stand 
out — truths  to  him  patent  and  undeniable;  first,  the 
war  should  not  have  been  a  surprise,  for  it  was  fore 
seen  by  prophets;  secondly,  the  war  was  not  inevita 
ble;  and  thirdly,  if  any  human  force  was  guilty,  that 
force  was  Germany.  Germany  was  guilty. 

But  what  did  the  war  mean?  Could  any  one  say? 
Was  there  any  explanation  to  be  had?  The  force  of 
such  racial  movement  left  the  individual  weak — almost 
cowering  in  the  sense  of  his  own  insignificance.  One 
night  before  it  was  time  to  go  back  to  Iron  City,  Cos- 
mus  stood  watching  the  traffic  twinkle  by  through  the 
rainy  streets.  Yes — the  crowd — was  that  a  key  to 
the  war  after  all? 

He  thought  of  signs;  an  editorial  written  with  a 
believing  heart  by  a  young  reporter;  a  novel  of  proph 
ecy  written  by  a  young  man  not  yet  thirty;  a  book 
store  hidden  away  in  an  obscure  city  street,  which  had 
but  one  purpose,  the  dissemination  of  radical  social 


io6  IRON  CITY 

theories;  the  discharge  of  a  college  professor  for  fac 
ing  his  duty;  establishment  of  new  magazines  dis 
tinguished  for  radicalism;  the  tremors  of  the  artistic 
life  of  America;  the  surge  and  thrust  of  labor  and 
capital. 

And  now — the  mass  movements  of  men  in  turmoil, 
of  continental  battles  which  split  the  universe  asunder. 

These  were  signs  that  stirred,  that  lifted  up  and 
cast  down. 

No  man  had  a  right  to  think  only  of  himself  in  such 
a  year,  for  if  these  signs,  that  flared  up  and  painted 
the  horizon,  meant  anything,  they  meant  this : 

The  individual  is  nothing. 

The  race  is  all. 

The  race — the  future — demands  all:  love,  peace, 
pain,  possession,  comfort,  culture,  life. 

Did  the  war  then  not  mark  the  passing  of  the  ego 
centric  world,  and  the  beginning  of  the  new  society? 


CHAPTER  X 

— it's  you." 

She  stood  with  Boyne's  great  black  safe  for 
a  background,  a  trim  figure  in  steel-blue  tailor  made, 
a  jaunty  feather  in  a  toque  that  fitted  tightly  her  head 
which  some  called  too  large,  but  which  could  not  be 
thought  anything  but  magnificent.  Sarah  was  some 
thing  to  find  satisfaction  in,  a  beautiful  woman.  Cos- 
mus  had  never  realized  before  that  a  figure  not  over 
five- feet-five  could  carry  such  dignity.  Her  smile  was 
reassuring. 

"Of  course,  I'll  go,"  she  answered.  She  slammed 
down  the  rolled-top  of  her  desk,  covered  the  type 
writer,  and  they  raced  like  children  down  a  corridor 
to  the  street.  September  night;  they  found  an  acrid 
smell  of  burnt  leaves  in  the  air,  a  great  moon,  and  a 
spirit  of  adventure  everywhere.  They  found,  too, 
suddenly  as  they  laughed  together  over  nothing  in 
particular,  that  they  had  grown  closer  together  dur 
ing  absence.  Those  letters  so  frank  yet  so  imper 
sonal  had  linked  them  mysteriously,  and  they  were 
feeling  in  unison,  pulsing  together  over  trifles.  It 
was  as  if  they  were  strangers  to  Iron  City's  familiar 
streets,  and  were  seeing  them  in  the  light  of  a  fresh 
new  romance.  The  shop  windows  were  interesting; 
the  long  rows  of  automobiles  lining  the  thoroughfare 
were  interesting.  Through  the  fresh  air  they  paced 
rhythmically  apart,  step  by  step  as  two  men  might  in 
the  exhilaration  of  physical  exercise. 

107 


io8  IRON  CITY 

Here  were  negroes  in  the  gaudy  colors  they  liked 
so  well ;  Italians,  their  olive  skin  and  dark  eyes  set  in 
passionate  faces,  no  longer  attracting  attention;  Chi 
nese,  cues  gone,  immaculately  dressed  in  American 
pinch-backs,  intelligent,  alert — less  immobile  than  their 
wont;  they  passed  a  Hindoo,  still  in  native  costume, 
dignified,  mysterious;  Jews  and  Greeks  vociferating; 
gaunt  faced,  solemn-eyed  Slavs;  large,  placid,  blonde 
Scandinavians  and  Germans.  Here  in  provincial  Iron 
City  on  Saturday  nights  was  enacted  the  pageant  of 
nations.  Its  immense  implications  silenced  them. 
Cosmus  felt  again  that  nearness  to  the  general  life — 
and  loyalty  to  America,  which  like  a  mother  enfolded 
all  the  races. 

Sarah,  seeming  to  understand  his  thoughts,  said, 
"Oh,  yes,  I  know  a  German  who  has  married  a  Greek ; 
a  Greek  who  has  married  an  Irishman;  an  Irishman, 
who  has  married  a  Russian  Jew.  What  is  to  become 
of  the  races?  It's  the  unification  of  the  world!" 

They  always  seemed  to  find  each  other,  somehow, 
in  that  mood — in  that  passion  for  the  general  life. 

"Do  you  know  Dickens  Street?"  she  asked. 

"No,  take  me." 

She  turned  sharply  off  from  Main  Street,  swarming 
with  shoppers,  into  a  by-street,  to  which  somehow, 
Cosmus  never  before  had  penetrated.  Here  they  found 
twilight,  stillness;  three  streets  converged  to  form  a 
triangular  plot,  where  stood  a  statue;  these  streets 
were  lined  with  dingy  ware-houses,  with  staring  win 
dows,  quaint  shops,  which  had  the  unmistakable  air  of 
something  distinctly  antique  and  foreign. 

"Look  sharp,  sir,"  Sarah  said  gayly,  "or  Mr.  Mi- 
cawber  will  walk  out  of  that  door  to  allow  you  the 


IRON  CITY  109 

inestimable  pleasure  of  contributing  to  an  indigent 
gentleman's  happiness." 

There  was  the  joy  of  living  in  her  laugh.  Cosmus 
first  became  aware  of  two  virtues  in  Sarah  Black- 
stone.  She  carried  her  own  world  with  her,  and  her 
happiness  did  not  depend  on  things. 

They  found  a  restaurant  up  a  flight  of  stairs,  to 
which  music  and  a  Japanese  waiter  added  a  touch  of 
the  outre  slightly  beyond  Iron  City's  convention.  It 
was  the  only  place  in  town  which  might  by  the  most 
charitable  stretch  of  the  mind  be  called  Bohemian. 
Here  one  could  sit  as  long  as  he  liked  over  tea  or  cof 
fee,  listening  to  Hungarian  music,  chatting  undis 
turbed. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  before  the  window  and 
watched  the  throngs  below  jam  in  and  out  of  shop  and 
theater. 

"This  is  pay-night,"  Sarah  explained.  "That  ac 
counts  for  the  crowd.  It's  strange  how  all  our  life 
whirls  not  about  the  college  but  about  R.  Sill  and 
Son's  plant." 

"Iron  City  doesn't  seem  much  affected  by  the  war." 

"It  isn't  really;  when  the  first  news  came  the  Re 
public-Despatch  got  out  an  extra,  and  Mr.  Sill  in  an 
interview  stated  that  he  would  not  manufacture  muni 
tions.  I  learned  later  from  Mr.  Boyne  that  his  Dallas 
and  Toronto  plants  were  transferring  all  their  engine 
business  here,  and  that  they  were  doing  the  manufac 
turing  of  shells — we  don't  scorn  war-brides  in  Iron 
City,  but  that  is  all  we  care  about  the  war.  It's  mean 
ing — as  for  that — well!" 

She  removed  her  coat,  and  sat  down ;  their  eyes  met 
across  the  table. 

"But  that  is  being  serious,  and  I  promised  myself 


no  IRON  CITY 

not  to  be  serious  to-night."  Then  she  added,  "We 
don't  play  enough,  Mr.  Cosmus." 

He  was  doubtful  about  the  "we."  Who  do  not? 
He  and  she?  or  Iron  City  folks  in  general? 

"Suppose  I  tell  you,  you  are  unusually  beautiful  to 
night." 

It  was  a  clumsy  attempt  at  play,  he  afterwards  rec 
ognized.  She  looked  frightened,  annoyed,  and  he  de 
spised  himself  for  his  bluntness  of  perception.  He 
was  afraid  that  he  had  rudely  brushed  away  the  tenu 
ous  threads  that  subtended  their  happiness.  But  she 
smiled  back  bravely. 

"Let's  not  do  that  either, — we  both  are  too  poor  at 
it." 

After  that  there  was  a  little  breathless  silence  while 
the  waiter  brought  the  tea;  then  they  settled  back  in 
comfort.  They  were  happy,  shyly  happy  in  a  calm, 
natural  manner.  There  was  no  storm  of  feeling  beat 
ing  up  through  him  for  expression;  he  was  content; 
completely  harbored ;  totally  answered. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  suddenly,  "this  makes  me 
think  of  home." 

Her  lids  fluttered  again  a  moment,  then  her  eyes 
faced  him  squarely  in  man-fashion. 

"It  does,  doesn't  it?  One  gets  so  tired  of  cafeterias 
and  boarding  houses." 

He  liked  to  see  her  eat — unashamed  of  hunger.  He 
liked  her  strong  hands,  like  a  mother's  he  thought. 
To  be  in  her  presence  was  as  a  walk  at  dawn  in  fresh 
rain-cleared  air.  And  yet  her  imperious  innocence 
was  there  to  guard  against  every  advance  of  sex. 

She  broke  a  piece  of  white  bread;  she  broke  a  piece 
of  brown  bread  and  dexterously  made  a  sandwich.  A 
third  virtue ;  she  was  herself. 


IRON  CITY  111 

Five  minutes  later,  on  the  street,  they  were  filled 
again  with  magnetism  borrowed  from  the  crowd — 
folk  intoxication — and  allowed  themselves  to  be  car 
ried  gayly  along  to  the  entrance  of  the  Green  Jewel. 
They  went  in.  Ah,  here  was  magic.  Dimness  am^ 
music,  and  an  interesting  story  inducted  into  the  mind 
with  meticulous  ease.  Here  was  reading  together — 
reading  of  no  high  order  to  be  sure — but  reading  to 
gether  under  the  most  thrilling  conditions;  a 
kind  of  Grand  Opera  of  Fiction.  On  the  screen,  in 
bewildering  array,  were  flashed  processions  of  Arabs 
in  white  solitopias,  cities  by  the  sea,  stretches  of  beach 
and  breakers,  mountain  roads,  cities  burning,  a  harem 
with  realism  carried  almost  too  far — sea  nymphs,  led 
by  the  Modern  Venus ;  one  saw  the  flash  of  her  naked 
body  like  the  blade  of  a  fish  in  the  shining  water  and 
then  she  stood  dripping  on  the  sands  clothed  in  noth 
ing  but  her  innocence  and  hair.  There  were  battles 
and  shipwrecks,  and  finally  the  last  close-ups  of  lovers 
in  each  other's  arms. 

"If  you  will  pardon  the  intrusion  of  a  sociologist 
upon  this  American  Night's  Entertainment,  I  must 
remark,"  Cosmus  said  mockingly,  "that  if  this  be  a 
revelation  of  our  national  life — then  America  is  a 
cross  between  a  child  and  a  roue.  This  show  was 
nothing  but  a  fairy  tale  held  together  by  a  thread  of 
sensuality." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered,  "but  nudity  somehow 
seems  no  more  objectionable  on  the  screen  than  it  does 
in  the  Louvre.  And  you  must  remember  that  that 
film  was  not  made  for  professors  but  for  girls — say — 
like  Margaret  Morton." 

Cosmus  felt  uncomfortable.  He  searched  her  face. 
Surely  she  was  not  piqued. 


112  IRON  CITY 

"You  know  Margaret  then?" 

"Yes,  I  see  her  often  at  the  Country  Club,  and  I 
think  she  is  one  of  the  two  really  beautiful  women 
I  ever  saw  outside  the  movies." 

"Yes,  she  is  beautiful,"  returned  John  thoughtfully. 

The  crowds  were  thinning  in  the  streets  when  they 
came  out.  Iron  City,  after  all,  was  but  a  country 
town  pushed  into  the  pose  of  a  metropolis.  The 
crowds  were  thickest  at  nine,  and  from  then  on 
thinned;  at  eleven  all  of  the  pretentious  bustle  was 
over. 

"Well,  Mr.  Sociologist,  if  you  are  in  the  high 
brow  mood,  let's  go  and  see  the  paintings." 

"Paintings?" 

"Yes,  paintings — an  exhibit  from  the  Chicago  Art 
Institute,  with  a  real-live  lecturer  attached." 

They  arrived  too  late  for  the  formal  address,  but 
they  found  the  lecturer  commenting  informally  on  the 
pictures.  The  exhibit  was  Iron  City's  first  venture 
into  the  field  of  art;  and  Iron  City  had  ventured  bold 
ly.  Of  course,  the  Woman's  Club  had  brought  the 
exhibit  as  a  part  of  its  "uplift  program."  Iron  City 
needed  art,  not  a  shallow  imitation  but  a  virile,  living 
art  that  could  reproduce  the  wonder  of  factory  pipes 
against  the  autumn  sky.  In  a  world  as  it  might  be, 
Raymond  Sill  might  have  been  such  an  artist ; — he  had 
virility  and  life  and  love  of  beauty. 

The  small  auditorium  in  the  Carnegie  Library,  where 
the  pictures  were  hung,  was  crowded  with  women. 
Besides  the  lecturer  there  were  three  men  in  the  place. 
A  ministerial  personage,  a  helpless  drooping  individual 
with  his  wife,  and  a  homeless,  shabby  painter  with 
eager  face.  The  last  was  holding  a  sketch,  evidently 
his  own,  up  to  the  lecturer  for  criticism.  Sarah 


IRON  CITY  113 

touched  Cosmus's  arm,  "Oh,  I  want  you  to  meet 
Silly  Dodd." 

She  meant  the  painter.  They  sought  him  out  and 
Cosmus  was  introduced.  John  saw  the  sketch.  It 
was  done  on  a  piece  of  wall-paper  with  pencil,  and 
filled  in  with  smeary  pigments.  The  criticism  the 
lecturer  offered  was  that  Dodd  had  used  black  where 
he  ought  to  have  used  purple. 

"But,  sir,  I  had  no  purple." 

Dodd  spoke  thickly  and  indistinctly;  there  was 
something  feeble  and  underfed  about  his  person,  some 
thing  feeble  in  his  manner,  but  no  intimation  of  im 
becility. 

"Why  do  they  call  him  Silly?"  John  inquired  of 
Sarah,  when  they  were  in  the  street  again. 

"I  suppose  because  he  doesn't  know  enough  to  keep 
clean.  Dodd  isn't  a  success,  but  I  find  him  interest 
ing.  He  won't  work.  They  tell  me  he  was  in  the 
Spanish  War,  had  the  yellow,  and  worked  at 
Sill's  plant  until  they  put  in  the  efficiency  system.  He 
was  married  once,  married  a  widow  who  owned  an 
apple  orchard  in  Michigan;  but  Dodd  wouldn't  pick 
apples;  he  preferred  to  paint  them,  and  she  sent  him 
about  his  business.  I  laugh  yet  when  I  think  of  what 
that  marriage  must  have  been.  I  suppose  Dodd  is  the 
least  desirable  person  in  Iron  City.  I  suppose  moth 
ers  hold  him  up  as  the  pattern  of  shame  to  their  chil 
dren,  and  yet,  Dodd's  whole  life  has  been  one  long 
passionate  pursuit  of  a  spiritual  ideal.  Think  of 
painting  on  wall-paper  with  colors  bought  at  Wool- 
worth's!" 

"Has  he  had  any  training?" 

"Yes,,   he   worked   with   Charles   Francis   Browne 


a  14  IRON  CITY 

years  ago.  Suppose  he  were  a  great  artist  ?  Wouldn't 
it  be  just  the  same  for  him  in  Iron  City  ?" 

They  had  lost  their  gayety;  folk  intoxication  had 
gone  with  the  crowd.  Carloads  of  shoppers  passed 
them,  and  the  streets  were  emptying.  They  were 
aware  of  the  expansive  night,  the  remoteness  of  the 
skies  and  the  vastness  of  the  world.  But  they  had 
lost  none  of  their  sense  of  comradeship.  Silence  did 
not  bother  them.  They  drifted  homeward.  In  the 
Park  where  a  few  leaves  were  fluttering  down  over 
the  newly  erected  statue  of  R.  Sill,  M.D.,  they  sat 
down  on  a  bench.  They  were  loth  to  go  in ;  here  was 
peace. 

Sarah  took  a  pin  from  her  hat  and  rolling  her 
collar  up  around  her  white  throat,  pinned  it  snugly. 
The  air  was  sharper.  John  watched  her,  fascinated. 
Every  move  of  hers  was  decisive,  strong.  She  knew 
well  how  to  take  care  of  herself.  When  she  spoke, 
after  a  time,  it  was  of  Dodd  again. 

"It  must  be  no  picnic  for  Dodd  to  be  so  impractical 
when  every  one  around  him  is  so  practical." 

"True." 

"Iron  City  must  stifle  him.  I  sometimes  think  that 
the  school,  the  church  and  money-getting  are  great 
conspiracies  against  freedom.  It  must  be  terrible  to 
lose  one's  love  of  freedom,"  she  paused,  "I  suppose 
when  one  does,  one  is  old." 

That  she  would  get  old  seemed  preposterous  to  him. 

"You'll  never  get  old,"  he  told  her. 

"It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  say  that,  but  already  I 
feel  that  I  have  missed  something,  and  the  pity  of  it 
is,  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

A  note  of  wistfulness  had  crept  into  her  voice.  She 
seemed  reaching  out  to  him  like  a  child,  but  when  he 


IRON  CITY  115 

looked  at  her  she  was  marble.  Her  clean-cut  beauty 
was  remote;  her  charm  was  power.  She  did  not, 
could  not  need  him.  She  was  a  refuge.  She  was  to 
be  respected,  adored,  not  loved  as  men  love  women. 

He  failed  to  answer  her. 

She  said,  "There,  I  was  serious,  and  I  had  promised 
not  to  be  serious."  And  when  she  said  that  a  barrier 
closed  between  them  and  she  arose  and  started  home. 
Cosmus  was  not  ready  to  go  in,  but  he  did  not  say 
so;  he  walked  along  beside  her — content.  The  last 
few  steps  in  the  vast  moonlight  seemed  to  him  like 
a  benediction.  At  the  gate,  they  parted  quickly.  She 
turned  back  as  if  to  shake  hands;  he  didn't  see  her 
outstretched  hand  in  time;  then  embarrassed  by  his 
blindness  she  went  into  the  house  without  a  word. 

Cosmus  was  happy.  In  bed  he  fell  asleep  quickly, 
and  slept  soundly,  but  not  before  he  had  time  to  think; 
her  presence  seemed  everywhere  round  him,  her  lips, 
her  eyes,  throat  and  hair.  Then  he  laughed,  "Funny, 
and  I  have  never  touched  even  her  little  finger." 

Sarah  did  not  sleep.  She  sat  in  the  dark  by  the 
window  and  watched  the  moonlight.  As  Ezra  Kim- 
bark  had  said,  Sarah  was  a  man's  woman.  Like 
many  another  modern  woman,  she  had  acquired  that 
reputation  because  she  let  her  mind  rule  her  heart. 
Such  a  reputation  must  have  come  with  her  up  from 
childhood,  but  it  wasn't  quite  authentic. 

When  she  was  two  years  old  her  father  had  died. 
As  far  back  as  she  could  remember,  his  absence  made 
her  heart  ache.  Even  her  mother  did  not  know  how 
she  missed  him,  for  little  Sarah  began  building  up 
an  outer  armament  of  steel.  She  envied  the  fathers 
of  the  other  girls  and  shyly  tried  to  adopt  one,  but 
never  succeeded.  "A  self-willed  little  miss,"  they 


n6  IRON  CITY 

called  her.  On  rainy  afternoons  she  often  went  up  to 
the  attic  to  the  big  trunk,  and  looked  over  her  father's 
photographs.  She  built  together  fragmentary  impres 
sions  of  him  until  she  had  a  preternatural  grasp  upon 
his  personality;  but  such  a  fleshless  parent  did  not 
answer  her  need. 

When  Sarah  was  seventeen,  her  mother  died.  To. 
her  mother  death  did  not  come  suddenly,  but  slowly 
and  cruelly.  Mrs.  Blackstone  had  taught  school  for 
fifteen  years  after  her  husband's  death,  and  teaching 
had  brought  on  a  slow  disease.  The  two  of  them, 
Sarah  and  her  mother,  in  the  last  three  years  of  her 
life  had  moved  from  sanitarium  to  sanitarium,  from 
east  to  west  seeking  a  hopeless  relief.  Sarah  was 
forced  to  live  with  strangers,  and  to  assume  mature 
duties  when  all  the  time  her  child's  heart  was  crying 
for  understanding.  The  child's  uncle  in  Cleveland 
said,  when  mother  and  daughter  were  at  San  Antonio, 
"Oh,  sister  will  be  safe  down  there,  for  Sarah  is  just 
like  a  grown-up  and  assumes  responsibility  with  de 
light."  On  her  death-bed  Mrs.  Blackstone  gave  Sarah 
a  letter  to  be  opened  after  the  funeral.  It  was  a  wild, 
passionate  cry  such  as  only  a  stricken  mother  could 
have  made.  It  frightened  Sarah.  She  sat  with  white 
face  and  did  not  weep  for  days.  Then  she  silenced 
her  heart,  locked  up  the  child  she  was  in  a  dungeon 
and  riveted  another  layer  of  steel  about  her  clinging 
womanhood.  Sarah  could  not  recall  those  days  now 
without  pain. 

She  went  to  live  with  the  uncle  in  Cleveland,  who 
had  five  daughters,  and  although  he  said,  "Dear,  you 
will  be  just  like  my  own  little  girls,"  somehow,  Sarah 
never  fitted  into  the  machinery  of  the  household. 
They  never  understood  her  and  she  suffered  much. 


IRON  CITY  117 

"She  is  independent,"  the  uncle  said,  "she  doesn't  need 
much  fathering."  And  so  Sarah  at  nineteen  was  just 
a  little  unwomanly — that  is  unlike  most  women — with 
a  vein  of  cynicism  running  deep,  and  an  atheistic 
bent. 

At  college,  she  distinguished  herself  in  debate, 
eschewed  belles-letters,  took  a  course  in  economics  and 
history,  and  became  the  leader  of  her  set.  She  was  the 
all-around  girl.  Men  did  not  care  much  for  her — \ 
though  not  quite  that.  She  was  popular  with  them, — > 
but  popular  differently;  she  never  seemed  to  need 
them.  They  counted  her  their  pal.  She  could  de-< 
feat  them  at  their  own  peculiar  game  of  logic,  and  she 
played  tennis  with  exceptional  vigor.  When  she  re 
ceived  her  master's  degree  the  president  said  :  "Sarah 
Blackstone  will  be  a  great  dean  in  five  years."  So 
she  would  have  been,  no  doubt,  if  she  had  not  run 
counter  to  the  artificial  thinking  of  Reverend  Mr. 
Crandon.  In  business,  she  found  the  contact  with  liv 
ing  reality,  which  she  craved,  but  was  it  calculated  to 
save  her  from  dying  inwardly,  as  she  had  told  Cos- 
mus  she  was  afraid  she  would? 

With  all  her  perspicacity,  her  interest  in  and  knowl 
edge  of  other  persons,  Sarah  Blackstone  did  not  know 
what  she  lacked.  She  was  blind  to  that  quality  of 
hers,  which  held  men  off,  just  as  much  as  Margaret 
Morton  was  unconscious  of  the  mystery  that  allured 
them. 

She  sat  at  the  window  a  long  time  and  thought  of 
John  Cosmus.  She  considered  him  but  a  boy,  but  it 
was  his  inflammable  idealism,  his  faith  in  life  which 
attracted  her.  She  had  had  a  broader  experience  than 
his,  and  she  knew  that  idealism  and  faith  in  an  age 
of  agnosticism  were  all  too  uncommon. 


n8  IRON  CITY 

When  she  finally  arose,  she  did  not  undress  in  the 
dark  as  was  her  wont.  She  turned  on  the  light,  and 
cast  little  sly  glances  at  herself  in  the  glass.  What 
she  saw  did  not  displease  her. 

"I  don't  care,  I  am  not  scrawny,"  she  thought,  and 
then  added,  "I  suppose  I  am  just  a  natural-born  old 
maid."  But  she  did  not  sigh.  Something  stirred 
within  her.  Inflammable  youth  tingled  in  her  veins; 
life  and  power  beat  up  from  unprobed  depths.  Her 
heart  fluttered  in  her  throat,  and  a  blush  dyed  her 
silver  flesh.  Then  laughing,  she  turned  off  the  light, 
threw  open  all  the  windows,  stood  gulping  in  a  deep 
draught  of  air,  then  jumped  into  bed  and  slept. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"IVf  ARGARET  MORTON  sat  at  her  dressing  table. 
•*•"•»•  Her  room  was  the  most  luxurious  in  the  great 
old-fashioned  house.  Soon  after  she  had  won  the 
automobile  and  the  membership  to  the  country  club 
from  her  father,  she  had  asked  him  to  allow  her  to  re 
model  and  decorate  two  rooms  under  her  own  super 
vision.  Carl  had,  of  course,  consented.  Margaret 
sent  for  a  contractor,  and  had  hardwood  floors,  now 
handsomely  waxed,  laid  over  the  old,  soft  pine,  pre 
viously  covered  with  carpet.  She  hung  mahogany 
doors  and  had  the  woodwork  finished  in  white;  with 
soft  curtains,  a  few  rich  rugs,  she  managed  to  throw 
over  the  rooms  the  air  of  sweetness  and  refinement. 
She  had  bought  her  furniture  at  Field's  one  day,  when 
she  was  in  the  city,  a  few  pieces  of  bird's-eye  maple 
which  to  her  seemed  very  fine.  Her  ideas  for  the 
room  she  had  gotten  from  a  house  at  Pike  Lake, 
where  she  had  gone  to  a  house  party.  From  off  the 
room  a  bath  with  showers  was  elaborately  appointed. 
Margaret  had  just  emerged  from  the  shower,  and 
sat  in  her  flowered  kimono  before  her  dressing  table, 
doing  nothing  in  particular.  She  was  waiting  for 
Raymond;  they  were  to  drive  over  to  Spotswood  for 
supper,  and  return  in  the  October  dusk.  She  was  not 
thinking  of  any  one  or  anything.  It  was  a  bother  to 
think.  She  had  a  sense  of  warmth  and  well-being. 
The  shower  must  have  been  a  little  too  warm,  for 
she  was  languorous.  Ideas  refused  to  climb  up  above 


120  IRON  CITY 

the  threshold  of  consciousness.  Her  lids  drooped 
down  over  her  eyes,  but  did  not  touch  her  cheek.  She 
could  peep  out  beneath  the  lashes;  with  satisfaction, 
she  saw  how  long  and  dark  the  lashes  were;  the  per 
fect  curve  of  the  lips,  and  of  the  shapely  arms.  She 
smiled — the  dimples  came.  She  tried  posture  after 
posture,  expression  after  expression,  all  beautiful,  all 
satisfactory  to  her,  for  she  laughed  out  loud  like  a 
child.  It  must  have  been  a  rehearsal. 

"I  must  dress,"  she  thought,  "Raymond  will  soon 
be  here; — shall  I  put  a  patch  on  to-day?  How  soft 
silk  is.  I  wonder  if  Professor  Cosmus  is  in  town. 
Lavender  always  becomes  me.  How  I  love  old  rose." 

Then  she  sank  back  again  into  relaxation — warm, 
comfortable,  her  senses  alert,  drinking  in  all  the  sweet 
ness  of  the  little  room.  She  took  up  a  silver  file,  and 
opened  a  scented  box,  but  her  hand  stopped  midway  in 
the  act,  her  lashes  drooped  again ;  she  was  all  rosy  in 
her  dream.  She  brushed  her  nails  languorously ;  then 
she  trailed  across  the  room,  and  opened  a  wardrobe 
door.  From  an  array  of  dresses,  she  selected  two;  a 
lavender  and  an  old  rose.  These  she  laid  fastidiously 
on  the  bed  and  stood  pondering,  her  hands  above  her 
head,  the  sleeves  falling  back  from  her  lovely  arms. 
Which  should  she  wear?  She  moved  back  to  the 
dressing  table,  fumbled  in  a  jewel  case  and  produced  a 
dingy  copper  cent. 

"Heads  for  rose;  tails  for  lavender." 

She  tossed.  The  penny  struck  the  head  of  the  bed, 
rolled  across  the  floor,  spun  awkwardly,  and  set. 

"Just  my  luck — tails." 

She  knit  her  brows,  then  laughed,  tossed  her  head 
in  defiance,  and  put  the  lavender  dress  back  into  the 
press. 


IRON  CITY  [121 

She  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  bed,  holding  a  silk  stock 
ing  listlessly,  her  eyes  caught  by  something  out  of  the 
windoAV.  They  rested  on  an  uncompleted  Gothic 
church,  the  new  St.  Luke's.  The  spire  rose  like  a 
carved  needle  into  the  sky,  and  the  gaping  windows 
seemed  like  beautiful  slits  the  shears  had  made  in  the 
lovely  granite  fabric.  Margaret  crossed  herself  de 
voutly.  Then  her  eyes  closed  in  a  dream  again;  she 
saw  the  church  finished  ready  for  a  bridal  party;  a 
new  awning  led  from  the  curbing  to  the  door;  con 
trary  to  all  precedent  it  was  hung  with  flowers ;  a  lim 
ousine  drew  up  at  the  church;  it  was  followed  by  a 
score  of  machines — all  glistening;  from  the  first,  a 
beautiful  girl  alighted — there  was  a  gasp  from  the 
crowd;  was  there  ever  such  a  lovely  bride?  And  the 
groom !  As  he  gleamed  and  danced  in  and  out  of  her 
dreams,  first,  he  was  Raymond  Sill  and  then  John 
Cosmus,  or  some  mysterious,  more  wonderful  per 
sonage,  whose  face  was  not  clear.  Up  the  steps 

The  dream  was  interrupted  by  her  mother's  voice. 

"Maggie,  Raymond's  here." 

"Already?    Tell  him  I'll  be  down  in  three  minutes." 

"Can  I  help  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  Mother,  I'm  almost  dressed.  Tell  him  he'll 
find  the  last  Cosmopolitan  under  the  pillow  on  the 
davenport." 

And  in  twenty  minutes,  Margaret  came  down  stairs 
in  the  old  rose  dress,  her  eyes  all  mirth. 

Raymond  sat  on  the  davenport  with  the  magazine 
in  his  hand  talking  to  Mrs.  Morton,  looking  like  a 
sportsman  in  his  neat  tweed.  Outside  the  big  Stutz 
still  panted  impatiently,  stroked  down  to  ten  miles. 

Mrs.  Morton  was  the  kind  of  woman  who  was  ad 
mirable  for  her  insincerity.  By  chance  revelation  some 


122  IRON  CITY; 

years  before  she  had  suddenly  seen  what  she  really 
was,  and  had  at  once  decided  to  build  herself  over. 
Though  she  was  timid,  she  sought  to  appear  aggres 
sive — something  of  the  executive;  hurt  and  frightened 
by  life,  she  pretended  that  she  was  strong  and  un 
afraid;  preferring  to  keep  silent,  she  talked  volubly; 
anything  but  strong  or  well,  she  preferred  to  boast 
of  her  good-health.  But  wasn't  all  this  feigning  ad 
mirable,  when  she  was  thereby  improving  nature's 
handiwork  ? 

"Now  children — let's  see,"  she  examined  her  wrist 
watch,  "it  is  a  quarter  of  five.  I  shall  expect  you  back 
not  one  minute  later  than  eight  o'clock.  You  will 
have  plenty  of  time  even  then,  and  will  not  have  to 
drive  like  mad." 

"All  right,  Mother,"  replied  Margaret,  "but  if  the 
machine  should  break  down,  or  something — don't  for 
get  your  Christian  Science."  With  that,  they  were 
off. 

There  was  an  irrepressible  gayety  about  Margaret 
Morton  that  was  wholly  natural,  not  attained.  Some 
secret  spring  of  energy  seemed  to  supply  her  with 
a  superabundance  of  spirits  which  no  reserve  could 
hold  in  check.  She  laughed  and  talked  ceaselessly, 
but  melodiously.  It  was  good  to  hear  her — not  for 
sense  but  for  music.  No  doubt,  this  was  one  of  her 
great  points  of  attractiveness. 

She  was  saying  to  Raymond : 

"You  can't  guess  what  I  dreamed  last  night.  I 
dreamed  that  I  was  walking  along  College  Street,  and 
I  saw  men  and  girls  staring  at  me,  and  shaking  their 
heads.  They  whispered,  too,  and  giggled.  Finally 
I  heard  one  say  gloomily  'what  a  shame,  such  a  fine 


IRON  CITY  123 

girl,  too,  could  go  with  any  man  she  pleased,  and  all 
that,  and  now  she  is  a  grind/ ' 

Margaret's  voice  trilled  off  into  laughter.  "What 
do  you  think  of  me  as  a  Phi  Beta?" 

"I  thought  you  wanted  to  be,  Mag?"1 

"How's  that?" 

"You  stick  so  close  to  Professor  Cosmus." 

"Anyway,  he's  not  rude  to  me  like  you  are,"  she 
pouted. 

Spotswood  lay  twenty  miles  west  over  good  roads, 
through  a  region  of  quiet  farms,  and  wooded  hills. 
Raymond  drove  like  mad. 

"You'll  kill  yourself  some  day,"  Margaret  shrieked 
in  his  ear,  as  they  swerved  down  a  hill,  and  around  a 
corner. 

"Not  in  an  auto." 

"Why  not?" 

"A  hunch  is  a  hunch,  you  know.    Just  can't  do  it." 

She  liked  best  to  dash  through  villages,  Raymond 
to  take  the  hills.  To  her  there  was  a  thrill  in  drop 
ping  down  upon  a  cluster  of  human  habitations,  so 
swiftly  that  the  houses  seemed  to  leap  to  the  eyes, 
and  to  sweep  through  the  streets  with  the  gaze  of  all 
the  inhabitants  upon  the  strange  machine.  She  de 
lighted  in  attention.  That  was  the  joy  in  these  trips 
for  her.  She  was  playing  the  grand  lady  grandly. 
Raymond  seemed  touched  by  the  beauty  of  the  autumn 
world  more  often  than  she.  Sometimes  he  slowed 
down  to  a  walk,  and  pointed  out  a  field  or  glade,  some 
stretch  of  painted  woods,  or  farmhouse  that  she  might 
have  missed.  It  was  at  such  moments  that  Raymond 
felt  nearest  to  Margaret;  he  would  let  his  arm  drop 
on  her  shoulder  and  she  would  let  it  rest  there.  Though 
he  was  not  unsusceptible  to  her  charms,  theirs  was  not 


124  IR°N  CITY 

yet  a  sentimental  relationship;  it  was  one  that  had 
begun  in  childhood's  comradeship  and  had  thus  far 
stopped  at  reciprocal  interests.  Raymond  gave  her 
excitement;  she  gave  him  gayety. 

Spotswood  reached  at  sundown,  they  found  the 
Spotswood  House,  a  hotel  that  tried  to  capitalize  its 
dingy  antiquity  by  the  sign,  "The  House  that  Lin 
coln  Chose."  They  hurried  into  the  dining  room, 
and  found  the  table  reserved  for  them.  Margaret  did 
not  remove  her  veil;  she  liked  the  air  it  gave  her. 
They  lingered  long  over  their  meal — these  two  young 
hearts,  finding  joy  in  pretending  that  they  were  world- 
travelers,  oblivious  to  the  real  world;  the  world  of 
war  and  struggle  that  lay  behind  the  gloomy  embers, 
which  they  were  watching  in  the  west. 

When  they  came  out  upon  the  hotel  piazza,  the  last 
red  of  the  sun  had  died  at  the  end  of  the  street.  The 
air  was  sharp  and  fragrant.  They  must  be  off.  Mar 
garet  felt  free  and  strong.  She  could  go  on  like  this 
forever.  Why  should  they  go  in  ?  She  loved  the  night 
— the  flight  through  its  mystery  on  winged  wheels. 

"Say,"  she  said,  "we've  just  got  to  go  home  by 
way  of  Trinway." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  nearly  seven.  At 
the  best  they  could  not  touch  Trinway  to  the  east  and 
get  back  to  Iron  City  before  ten.  He  looked  at  Mar 
garet,  the  pretty,  teasing  face  atilt  to  him. 

Soon  they  were  careening  over  the  star-lit  roads, 
silent,  impassioned,,,  thrilling.  Once  they  narrowly 
missed  collision  with  a  wagon,  once  they  would  have 
capsized  in  a  ditch  had  it  not  been  for  Raymond's 
cool  twist  of  the  wheel.  But  such  escapes  were  part 
of  the  pleasure.  On  the  edge  of  the  village  precincts, 
Raymond  always  slackened  speed  a  trifle.  It  was 


IRON  CITY  125 

near  Twelve  Mile  that  they  met  the  major  adventure 
of  the  evening.  Although  Raymond  had  slowed  down, 
it  was  not  enough  to  give  him  easy  control  of  the 
heavy  car.  As  they  turned  a  corner  they  saw  a  boy 
dart  into  the  lane  of  light  made  by  their  lamps,  falter, 
hesitate;  Raymond  whirled  the  wheel,  they  paused. 
There  was  a  scream  behind.  Visions  of  a  crumpled 
human  form  swept  through  Raymond's  brain.  He 
slowed  down.  Margaret  grasped  his  arm,  frantically. 

"Don't  stop,  Ray,  don't  stop;  Mother  must  not 
know  wre  were  out  here." 

He  touched  the  throttle  and  they  fled  guiltily  out 
of  the  town  upon  an  unfrequented  road.  Mile  after 
mile  they  put  between  them  and  the  village.  Finally 
Raymond  felt  that  he  could  slow  down  to  a  walk. 
They  were  sober  and  silent;  some  awful  calamity 
suddenly  towered  above  them.  By  some  reflex  of 
Margaret's  gayety,  she  laughed  nervously  and  said, 

"I  don't  believe  we  struck  him;  I  looked  back  quick, 
but  I  couldn't  see." 

"He  screamed." 

"He  was  only  scared.  Please  don't  be  worried, 
Ray." 

They  reached  home  soon  after  ten.  They  saw  there 
the  lights  of  Raymond's  factory  painting  the  sky; 
there  were  lights  in  the  Morton  house,  too. 

Mrs.  Morton  met  them  at  the  door. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Maggie,"  she  began  severely. 

"Well,  Mother,  we  couldn't  help  it.  We  had  to 
carry  water  a  half  a  mile  to  cool  the  engine." 

"Why,  you  poor  children,  you  actually  look  fagged 
out." 

Margaret  did  not  sleep.     She  lay  staring  up  at  the 


126  IRON  CITY 

ceiling,  calculating  the  chances  of  their  being  found 
out.    Oh !    What  if  they  had  killed  the  boy? 

The  next  morning  she  had  a  headache,  and  yet  she 
dressed  to  go  down  to  breakfast.  She  was  on  the 
stairs  when  she  heard  her  father's  big  voice  above 
the  clatter  of  coffee-cups  say, 

"The  Republic-Despatch  says  that  a  boy  was  run 
down  by  a  strange  machine  at  Twelve  Mile  last  night. 
Lots  of  excitement;  the  whole  town  is  indignant  be 
cause  the  driver  did  not  stop.  A  person  who  would 
do  that,"  he  said  emphatically,  "is  nothing  more  or  less 
than  a  human  skunk." 

Margaret  did  not  go  down.  She  crept  back  to  her 
bed-room,  undressed  and  lay  still,  white  and  dis 
traught. 

At  his  father's  office,  Raymond  scanned  the  morn: 
ing  papers.  Yes,  there  it  was — a  news  story  and  an 
editorial  on  "vampires  of  the  road."  Raymond's  face 
flamed  behind  the  paper.  Thank  God !  only  the  boy's 
leg  was  broken. 

About  eleven  Margaret  received  a  telephone  call. 
She  lay  still,  feigning  sleep,  inwardly  fearful  that  it 
was  an  officer  of  the  law.  Her  mother  called. 

"Raymond  wants  you,  Maggie." 

"Oh." 

At  the  phone  Raymond  was  saying, 

"The  boy  only  had  a  leg  broken." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad." 

"And  they  don't  know  who  did  it." 

"Gee,  I'm  so  glad,  Ray." 

That  night  when  Ray  dropped  in  to  see  Margaret, 
they  suddenly  saw  themselves  in  a  new  relationship. 
They  had  a  secret.  They  were  linked  by  a  common 
guilt;  some  vaster,  darker  fate  had  joined  them.  They 


IRON  CITY  127; 

saw  themselves  in  the  livid  light  of  melodramatic 
romance.  They  enjoyed  its  novelty.  When  Ray 
mond  left,  he  stooped  and  kissed  Margaret's  willing 
lips  for  the  first  time.  With  that  kiss,  they  laid  aside 
the  boy-and-girl  relationship;  it  sealed  their  entrance 
into  manhood  and  womanhood,  and  opened  an  allur 
ing  and  mysterious  world. 


CHAPTER  XII 

JOHN  COSMUS,  in  his  room  at  the  Curtis  house, 
one  November  evening,  held  open  before  him  a 
letter  from  Frau  Burkhardt,  which  said  "Six  weeks 
after  you  left,  our  dear  Karl  sailed  from  New  York 
to  Sweden.  He  is  only  an  under-officer  in  the  346th 
Prussian  Guards,  but  it  does  us  good  to  know  that 
we  can  do  that  much  for  our  Vaterland." 

The  letter  brought  with  it  the  turmoil  of  a  world 
at  war.  To  be  sure  Cosmus  had  been  wrestling  with 
the  abstract  problems  which  such  a  catastrophe  would 
usher  into  a  mind  of  his  type;  but  here  in  this  quiet 
letter  was  concrete  contact  with  the  blood  and  stir 
and  havoc  of  the  battle  itself. 

Karl — little  Karl — was  perhaps  at  that  moment 
either  giving  or  taking  life.  Outside  a  November 
moon  congealed  the  world  to  marble.  There  trailed 
through  his  mind,  by  some  irrational  connection, 
thoughts  of  Babylon,  the  strong,  which  had  ravished 
beauty  from  the  world  and  had,  in  passing,  not  left  a 
stone;  the  mystery  of  time;  the  passing  of  civiliza 
tions;  and  the  unfathomable  mystery  of  war. 

He  turned  from  the  window,  picked  up  the  news 
paper  clippings,  which  Frau  Burkhardt  had  so  gra 
ciously  sent  him,  glanced  over  them,  and  tossed  them 
into  the  grate. 

"Mere  propaganda!" 

He  found  in  Iron  City  many  persons  more  suscepti- 

128 


IRON  CITY  129 

ble  than  he  to  the  seduction  of  the  Continental  Times, 
and  other  pro-German  media.  There  was  a  mild  in 
difference  generally,  as  Sarah  had  said,  but  of  those  • 
who  thought  at  all,  many  strongly  sympathized  with 
the  Prussian  government.  Why  shouldn't  they?  They 
found  in  that  magnificent  military  machine  that  glided 
down  over  Belgium  and  France  the  embodiment  of 
much  of  what  they  worshiped  in  their  own  civiliza-- 
tion ;  largeness,  speed,  efficiency,  and  conscious  destruc 
tion  of  competitors.  Iron  City  had  been  paying 
obeisance  for  years  to  the  same  Gods  as  Germany. 
As  one  citizen  put  it,  "Fritz  can  lick  the  world  be 
cause  he  is  the  best  business  man  in  the  world." 

To  all  this  Cosmus  returned  surprise.  He  had  trav 
ersed  a  large  field  of  thought, — history,  economics, 
science,  religion  and  literature;  and  before  the  war, 
he  had  been  striving  to  do  what  thoughtful  men  of 
his  generation  everywhere  were  consciously  or  un 
consciously  trying  to  do;  to  adjust  society  to  the  sud 
den  wrench  which  Darwinism  had  given  the  world 
two  generations  back;  to  build  a  philosophy,  firmly 
imbedded  in  fact,  yet  inclusive  of  spiritual  values. 
Forced  as  he  had  been  from  boyhood  into  contact  with 
hardship, — he  had  had  to  work  with  his  hands, — he 
had  grown  to  respect  things  as  they  are.  He  recog 
nized  the  immutable  laws  of  the  universe.  But  he 
never  failed  to  see  the  pulsing  inner  life  of  man,  its 
needs,  intentions,  shadowy  passionate  aspirations;  he 
believed  that  man  was  the  arbiter  of  his  own  destiny. 
The  hope  of  society,  he  believed,  was  the  attainment 
of  mobility — a  propensity  for  flowing,  with  the  least 
wrench,  into  the  convolutions  that  the  immutable  powef 
of  the  universe  had  set  for  it.  Cosmus  saw  Germany, 
therefore,  a  detriment  to  the  larger  mobility — because, 


130  IRON  CITY 

in  the  transition  from  class-thinking  to  social  think 
ing,  Germany  was  just  another  colossal  class-mind, 
inimical  to  socialization.  But  subtly  specious  Ger 
many  was,  because  she  seemingly  had  attained  social 
ization  within  herself.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had 
not;  in  a  nation  where  there  was  no  free,  quick  cir 
culation  of  ideas,  there  could  be  no  real  socialization. 

When  Cosmus  found  so  much  sentiment  for  Ger 
many  in  Iron  City,  he  was  troubled.  He  could  not 
understand  how  Americans  could  fail  to  see  the  issue. 
Was  Democracy  decadent?  He  concluded  that  Iron 
City  was  the  victim  of  class  thinking,  being,  as  it  was, 
but  an  emanation  of  Sill's  factory — the  embodiment 
of  largeness,  efficiency,  and  conscious  destruction  of 
competitors. 

He  sat  thoughtfully  in  his  room  late  one  night  by 
the  fire — troubled.  America  was  jeopardized ;  whether 
she  saw  it  or  not,  she  was  imperiled  by  her  own  supine- 
ness.  Shut  in,  in  provincial  Iron  City,  he  seemed 
alone  in  his  passion  for  America.  But  if  he  had  only 
known  it,  young  hearts  and  minds  East  and  West 
were  throbbing  with  the  new  dream  of  a  great  De 
mocracy. 

The  next  evening  he  sought  out  Sarah  Blackstone. 
He  had  formed  that  habit  lately; — she  was  so  much 
that  which  Iron  City  was  not.  They  were  sitting 
over  coffee  in  the  little  cafe,  with  its  half-Bohemian 
flavor.  He  was  tired;  the  eternal  grind  of  the  class 
room,  relieved  only  occasionally  by  inspiration,  had 
exacted  its  toll.  His  mind  beat  feverishly  in  and  out 
of  abstract  problems — as  a  teacher's  mind  will — spin 
ning  wildly  in  the  web  of  dilemma,  seeing  only  the 
everlasting  return  of  circumstance.  Only  vigorous 
altercation  with  a  medicine  ball,  or  contact  with  the 


IRON  CITY  131 

cooling  presence  of  Sarah  was  able  to  cure  him  when 
he  was  in  that  state. 

"Why  is  it,"  he  was  saying  nervously,  "that,  when 
the  solution  of  all  social  problems  depends  on  edu 
cation,  we  do  nothing  whatsoever  with  the  problem 
of  education?" 

She  pushed  her  chair  back  from  the  table,  folded 
her  hands  in  her  lap  in  her  peculiar  way,  smiled  across 
at  him,  and  said, 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"Well,  President  Crandon  informed  me  yesterday 
that  there  had  been  several  complaints  against  my  ap 
proach  to  Labor  Problems." 

"So?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  he  didn't  say  so  directly;  he  never 
does.  Ostensibly  he  came  to  commend  me  for  the  way 
I  edited  the  catalogue,  but  he  said,  by  the  long  road 
around,  'We  must  guard  our  departments  from  any 
taint  or  suspicion  of  class  prejudice.' ' 

Sarah  smiled. 

"Oh,  the  blindness  of  the  man.  Class-prejudice." 
John  was  getting  shrill,  then  recollecting  himself,  he 
stopped,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  turned  out  his  hands. 
"You  know,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  they  got  the  in 
junction  through  to  close  Dover  Street." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"Dean  Georgia  Summers's  eyes  will  no  longer  be 
assailed  by  the  sight  of  the  dear  working  men." 

"You  despise  that  woman?"  There  was  half-con 
cealed  amusement  in  Sarah's  voice. 

"She  seems  to  me  to  have  fed  her  life-long  on  the 
dregs  of  Victorianism.  After  all,"  John  continued, 
"the  problem  is  summed  up  by  your  own  phrase — 
private  and  public  duty.  Crandon  Hill  College  acts  as 


132  IRON  CITY 

a  private  institution,  existing  of  and  for  and  by  a  class, 
whereas  education  by  its  very  nature,  if  its  object 
is  attained,  is  a  public  enterprise.  Think  of  our  oppor 
tunity  here  in  Iron  City  to  do  something  for  the  alien 
peoples,  and  to  extend  the  democratic  principle.  Think 
of  our  duty  to  adjust  America  to  the  colossal  events 
of  war.  But  if  we  so  much  as  broach  the  subject,  a 
hue  and  cry  of  socialism  is  raised,  until  one  feels  like 
kicking  himself  out  of  the  professon." 

"Which  I  should  never  do — being  a  man,"  Sarah 
said  with  a  smile.  She  liked  Cosmus  for  his  vehe 
mence. 

"The  college  should  be  pouring  such  a  flood  of  im 
personal,  scientific  knowledge  upon  the  situation,  re 
flecting  truth  so  clearly  without  the  aberration  of 
class-minds,  that  the  disintegration  of  America  would 
be  impossible." 

"They  don't  see,  Mr.  Cosmus — that's  all.  You  for 
get  that  you  are  an  expert  in  social  conditions.  And 
say  what  you  will,  truth  is  illusive,  metaphysical. 
Take  old  Mr.  Sill,  do  you  fancy  that  he  looks  upon 
himself  as  a  vile  plutocrat?  No,  he  treasures  the 
pretty  illusion  that  he  is  a  leader  in  society.  Does 
President  Crandon  consider  himself  a  failure  as  an 
educator?  Hardly.  He  has  his  pretty  illusions,  too. 
The  whole  problem  is  to  make  them  see." 

"See!"  John  answered  bitterly.  "In  other  words 
to  solve  the  problem  of  education  one  must  educate. 
Just  so.  You  have  brought  me  back  to  where  I  started 
this  morning.  I  have  been  moving  in  that  toxic  circle 
all  day.  You,  even  you,  have  failed  me." 

Sarah  did  not  let  this  emphasis  on  "even  you"  go 
unnoticed. 

"I  suppose  I  have,"  she  said,  sad  for  no  reason 


IRON  CITY  133 

whatsoever.  "But  you  forget  youth.  You  forget 
yourself,  and  the  thousands  like  you,  young  and 
strong,  and  seeing.  They  will  bring  the  new  age 
soon,  very  soon." 

As  she  spoke  Cosmus  saw  past  her  face  now  ra 
diant,  through  the  window  to  where  the  River  of 
Wires  gleamed,  a  link  between  unseen  cities. 

"And  you'll  never  stop  trying  to  make  them  see — 
that  I  know.  You  won't  get  tired;  you  won't  fail, 
you'll  go  on." 

It  wasn't  what  she  said  that  renewed  John's 
strength,  it  was  she.  Something  passed  from  her  to 
him,  it  seemed,  and  made  him  strong.  He  felt  the 
fever  and  the  fret  vanishing,  and  ambition  renewed. 

'That  reminds  me  of  an  experience  I  had  with  Pro 
fessor  Clarke  yesterday,"  he  said  smiling;  "Clarke, 
you  know,  believes  in  the  divine  right  of  professors. 
He  was  deploring  the  rising  ripple  of  self-government 
among  the  students,  and  he  said :  'God  gave  Moses 
to  the  children  of  Israel,  and  they  took  him.'  I 
answered,  'But  that  was  God!'  And  he  didn't  see 
the  joke." 

They  laughed.  The  atmosphere  was  cleared  and 
they  were  happy.  When  they  arose  to  go,  before  leav 
ing  the  room,  Cosmus  turned  to  her  fervently. 

"You  did  help  me  after  all,  Sarah." 

Perhaps  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  called  her 
Sarah  for  the  first  time,  so  seldom  had  he  called  her 
anything  else  in  his  mind.  But  Sarah  knew.  It  filled 
her  with  strange  exultation,  and  when  he  turned  to 
her  again,  her  eyes  were  dancing,  her  cheeks  ra 
diant.  .  .  . 

As  John  Cosmus  looked  back  upon  that  second  win 
ter  at  Crandon  Hill  College  it  seemed  one  long  stretch 


134  IRON 

of  exasperation.  Upon  one  side,  he  saw  America's 
pitiable  need  of  a  great  unifying  passion,  on  the  other, 
the  immobility  of  the  college,  its  servile  worship  of 
the  past,  its  short-circuiting  of  great  ideas.  He  did 
not  escape  despair,  or  that  withering  sense  of  failure, 
which  comes  to  all  men  who  see  principles  rather  than 
things,  masses  rather  than  individuals.  He  would 
awake  out  of  his  struggle  trying  to  reassure  himself : 
Wasn't  he  making  quite  too  much  of  this?  Iron  City 
was  perfectly  happy.  There  was  no  problem  at  R. 
Sill's  plant!  The  college  was  contributing  a  trained 
citizenry, — minds  capable  of  facile  changes  of  thought 
and  of  social  control.  Why  should  one  take  educa 
tion  seriously  when  no  one  else  did?  Then  he  would 
return  to  the  round  of  duties  to  run  face  to  face  with 
indifference,  provincialism,  and  class-hatred.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  Sarah  Blackstone,  Cosmus  might  have 
despaired  utterly.  She  furnished  much  of  the  motive 
force  that  drove  him  on  in  those  months..  He  turned 
to  her  habitually,  and  yet,  he  always  found  the  same 
barrier  between  them.  They  were  greater  friends,  but 
lesser  lovers. 

One  wintef  evening  when  he  called  for  her  at 
Boyne's  office,  he  found  her  bowed  over  the  desk,  her 
head  resting  on  her  arms.  She  arose  with  a  start, 
and  a  none-too-brave  smile. 

"You're  tired,"  he  said.  "You'd  better  not  go  out 
to-night.  I'm  a  dog  to  think  of  asking  you." 

"I'm  all  right.    I  can  go." 

"What  is  it,  Sarah?"  Strange,  to  him  she  often 
seemed  two  women — one,  masterful,  and  strong,  one 
only  a  child. 

"Nothing."  Then  she  added,  with  that  quick  smile 
of  hers,  "when  I  was  a  child,  I  did  not  receive  a  single 


IRON  CITY  135 

gift  on  my  tenth  birthday,  and  I  remember  still  how 
I  felt.  I  still  feel  that  way  sometimes." 

He  experienced  again  the  impulse  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  and  again  the  thought  intervened,  that  there 
would  be  something  preposterous  in  caressing  Sarah 
Blackstone.  When  he  spoke  it  was  quite  impersonally, 

"Come  in  and  get  a  cup  of  coffee.  That  will  brace 
you  up." 

And  he  was  not  above  laying  upon  her  his  own 
vexing  problems. 

In  late  November  before  Senator  Matt  Tyler,  trus 
tee  of  Crandon  Hill  College,  went  to  Washington, 
Cosmus  had  an  opportunity  to  talk  with  him  con-> 
cerning  the  educational  situation. 

"My  dear  son,"  replied  the  Senator,  not  unkindly, 
"like  most  boys  you  are  taking  the  whole  matter  quite 
too  seriously.  If  you'll  just  ease  up  a  bit,  things  will 
come  out  all  right.  They  always  do.  You  will  find 
that  the  college  is  still  the  bulwark  of  the  state,  that 
there  are  a  lot  of  older  and  wiser  heads  than  yours 
thinking  on  these  same  problems.  What  our  noble 
public  document,  the  Declaration,  says  about  all  men 
being  created  free  and  equal,  you  will  find  is  quite  true 
in  these  United  States." 

Senator  Tyler  was  scrupulous  in  his  personal  attire. 
Broadcloth,  linen,  a  rose  in  his  buttonhole,  were  evi 
dences  of  exacting  taste.  He  was  ruddy  and  not  port 
ly — a  handsome  figure.  Cosmus  had  his  eye  on  the 
diamond  shirt  stud  as  he  asked, 

"Don't  you  sometimes  suspect,  Senator,  that  our 
Declaration  and  Constitution  as  ready-made  plans  are 
not  quite  adequate  for  all  present  needs?  And  don't 
you  ever  grow  impatient  at  the  lack  of  large,  general- 


136  IRON  CITY 

izing  minds  that  should  come  out  of  schools?  Aren't 
we  producing  specialists,  rather  than  administrators — • 
real  leaders  in  the  state?" 

Senator  Tyler  smiled  broadly,  and  tapped  Cosmus's 
knee  with  his  elegant  finger. 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  talk  that  treason  only  to 
one  who  is  as  good  natured  as  I  am,  young  fellow." 
He  winked  jocosely.  "No,  you  go  back  and  get  in 
terested  in  the  development  of  your  own  department, 
and  let  these  vexing  matters  go.  They  will  take  care 
of  themselves."  He  arose  and  saw  Cosmus  to  the 
door.  "Don't  judge  these  matters  too  important. 
Good-by,  come  again." 

Senator  Matt  Tyler  evidently  did  not  consider  this 
interview  unimportant.  He  was  sober  when  he  sat 
down  in  his  swivel  chair;  his  brows  were  knitted;  and 
he  scribbled  something  on  a  pad  of  paper.  Two  or 
three  days  later  when  he  met  President  Hugh  Cran- 
don  at  dinner,  he  whispered  in  the  midst  of  Haskell's 
best  story,  "Young  Cosmus  seems  a  little  restive." 

"Yes,  he  hasn't  put  himself  in  harmony  with  the 
large  historical  background  of  the  college." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it  ?"  The  Senator  murmured ;  their 
eyes  met  understandingly. 

One  evening  after  the  Christmas  vacation,  Mrs. 
Curtis  told  Cosmus  that  her  friend,  Mrs.  Hilton, 
matron  of  Mather  Hall,  had  been  discharged. 

"I  wonder  if  you  can't  do  something  to  get  her 
place  back?"  Cosmus  smiled;  Mrs.  Curtis  was  always 
attributing  to  him  influence  in  the  college  which  he  did 
not  have. 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Mrs.  Curtis.  Why  was  she  dis 
charged?" 

"Well,  she  wanted  to  buy  fresh  supplies — that  is 


IRON  CITY  137 

milk,  butter  and  meat — from  Holdon  &  Holdon,  and 
the  college  authorities  wanted  her  to  buy  them  from 
the  Iron  City  Consumer's  Company." 

"She  gets  them  cheaper,  I  suppose,"  Cosmus  asked, 
"from  the  Consumer's  Company." 

"No,  dearer." 

"Dearer?" 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Curtis  spoke  almost  defiantly,  "Mrs. 
Hilton  told  me  that  she  had  it  straight  from  one  of 
the  clerks  at  the  Consumer's,  that  Mr.  Smithkins  holds 
the  controlling  interest  in  the  Consumer's  Company." 

"You  mean  in  the  Utility  Company  ?" 

"No,  both." 

"I  can  do  nothing,  Mrs.  Curtis." 

Cosmus  remembered  where  he  had  last  seen  P.  C. 
Smithkins;  it  was  at  prayer-meeting  at  the  First 
Church.  Tall,  elderly,  volatile,  Mr.  Smithkins,  trustee 
of  Crandon  Hill  College,  was  asserting,  apropos  of 
nothing,  that  "We  have  no  literature  in  America,  be 
cause  America  is  too  prosperous." 

By  such  indirect  means,  Cosmus  was  inducted  into 
the  central  fact  of  college  life.  He  knew  that  when 
one  formed  an  opinion  about  anything  so  subtle  as 
the  spirit  of  a  place,  there  was  always  danger  of  al 
lowing  the  personal  equation  to  count  too  much,  but 
here  fact  piled  itself  on  fact  in  convincing  preponder 
ance.  Though  hot  with  the  impatience  of  youth,  he 
was  never  blind  enough  to  attribute  to  Sill,  Crandon, 
Tyler  and  Smithkins,  conscious  collusion,  or  even  so 
much  as  tacit  understanding.  To  Cosmus,  the  most 
culpable  of  all  was  President  Crandon.  Under  his 
guidance,  the  college  should  have  been  creating  a  quick 
current  of  large  ideas,  which  would  have  purged  so 
ciety  of  injustice  and  made  democracy  real.  But 


138  IRON  CITY 

President  Crandon,  amiable  and  formal,  made  edu 
cation  a  mere  massing  of  conventionalities  and  intri 
cate  artificialities.  Some  mysterious  antipathy  drove 
him,  the  youthful  instructor,  and  Hugh  Crandon,  the 
president,  asunder.  From  Crandon,  the  president, 
from  Tyler,  the  trustee,  from  his  colleagues,  Cosmus 
received  only  antagonism.  Even  Ezra  Kimbark, 
though  friendly,  Cosmus  found  did  not  understand. 
To  Kimbark,  education  was  the  passionate  pursuit  of 
an  aloof  and  painted  past. 

The  only  element  which  saved  Cosmus  from  com 
plete  discouragement  was  a  few  students.  He  thought 
often  of  the  words  of  Sarah,  "But  you  forget  youth. 
You  forget  yourself,  and  the  thousands  like  you,  young 
and  strong — seeing.  They  will  bring  the  new  age 
soon,  very  soon."  There  was  Jenkins,  a  freshman, 
whose  father  was  a  coal  operator  in  Illinois;  Jenkins 
openly  sympathized  with  the  men  when  they  were  out 
on  a  strike  and  sought  to  bring  them  and  his  father 
into  an  amicable  settlement.  There  was  Weaver, 
dynamic  and  brilliant,  fearlessly  setting  himself  to 
the  study  of  society  in  the  hope  of  arriving  at  some 
practical  egress  from  the  maze  of  social  problems. 
These  and  others  like  them  gravitated  to  Cosmus,  and 
compensated  for  hours  of  discouragement. 

Not  so  Raymond  Sill.  His  entrance  into  college 
in  the  fall  was  a  signal  for  rejoicing  on  the  part  of 
football  enthusiasts.  No  one  ran  the  team  like  Ray 
mond,  nor  played  the  mandolin  so  pleasingly.  Under 
Margaret  Morton's  urging,  he  elected  Labor  Prob 
lems  with  Cosmus.  In  the  classroom  Raymond  sat 
back  often  with  a  mocking  expression  on  his  dark 
handsome  face ;  or  he  would  mischievously  try  to  side- 


IRON  CITY  139 

track  all  discussion  of  current  problems  into  considera 
tion  of  abstractions. 

He  would  interrupt:  "Don't  you  think  selfishness 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all  acts?  Should  one  man  be 
blamed  then  more  than  another?" 

He  had  a  sluggish  but,  when  aroused,  trenchant 
mind,  and  a  disconcerting  gift  for  analysis.  Cosmusj 
honestly  tried  to  answer  his  difficulties  until  he  was  con 
vinced  that  Raymond  was  quibbling.  Then  he  turned 
upon  him  the  full  battery  of  his  anger  and  impatience. 
Raymond  relapsed  into  silence  and  later  tried  to  pre 
cipitate  a  mutiny.  Often  he  did  not  appear  for  days. 

When  the  semester  ended,  Cosmus  was  forced  to 
flunk  Raymond  Sill.  There  was  a  rule  which  auto 
matically  cut  off  any  student  who  failed  from  partic 
ipation  in  college  activities.  When  the  mandolin  club 
went  on  its  spring  trip,  however,  to  his  surprise,  Cos 
mus  discovered  that  Raymond  was  the  leader. 

"By  special  courtesy  of  the  president,"  he  was  told 
by  Dean  Witherspoon. 

There  is  no  deliberative  body  so  little  understood  as 
a  college  faculty.  Formed  of  individualists  and  spe 
cialists,  it  feeds  on  technicalities;  it  has  no  sense  of 
humor,  and  no  soul.  It  is  inclusive  of  all  points  of 
view,  but  incapable  of  accepting  any.  Every  member 
insists  on  speaking  on  every  subject.  Its  individual 
wisdom  is  rivaled  only  by  its  collective  unwisdom.  It 
rivals  the  German  Reichstag  as  a  debating  society. 
In  the  two  years  in  which  John  Cosmus  had  sat  on  the 
faculty  of  Crandon  Hill  College,  he  had  never  once 
seen  the  ghost  of  an  educational  policy  stalk  across 
the  well-set  stage,  upon  which  so  many  orators  strut 
ted  and  fretted.  He,  however,  had  heard  the  faculty 
spend  two  hours  discussing  whether  "successive"  had 


140  IRON  CITY 

logical  or  chronological  meaning.  President  Hugh 
Crandon,  polished  and  forbearing,  patiently  guided 
the  orators  through  the  Daedalian  maze  of  parliamen 
tary  procedure.  Now  and  then  Cosmus  thought  he 
saw  the  wraith  of  a  twinkle  in  the  president's  eyes. 
What  was  this  president's  power?  What  was  the  real 
Hugh  Crandon  who  hid  behind  the  mask  ?  Once  Cos 
mus  had  heard  Mrs.  Crandon  indiscreetly  say,  "Yes, 
Mr.  Crandon  allows  all  the  faculty  to  have  their  say, 
then  he  does  as  he  pleases  anyhow." 

At  one  of  the  regular  faculty  meetings  early  in  the 
spring,  Cosmus,  goaded  by  the  indifference  of  his  col 
leagues  into  bringing  before  them  problems  of  Iron 
City's  life,  made  his  maiden  speech.  Direct  always, 
he  said: 

"Mr.  President,  I  consider  the  greatest  mistake 
Crandon  Hill  College  ever  made  was  the  closing  of 
Dover  Street  to  the  alien  workers  that  used  to  pass 
through  the  campus.  In  itself,  it  seems  nothing;  in 
reality  it  has  become  a  symbol  of  our  aloofness  from 
the  vital  life  of  our  city.  We  have  stamped  ourselves 
with  the  insidious  insignia  of  class." 

Such  sincerity,  interpolated  into  an  assembly  whose 
policies  were  masked  by  insincerity  and  politeness, 
was  freezing.  For  a  moment,  it  looked  as  if  no  one 
were  to  accept  the  challenge.  President  Crandon,  calm 
and  dignified  always,  recoiled ;  his  eyes  contracted  into 
hot  slits.  Then  Professor  Clarke,  the  whip  of  the 
house,  arose. 

"Mr.  President,  I  do  not  wish  to  prolong  this  dis 
cussion  (Professor  Clarke  always  preluded  his  re 
marks  thus)  but  I  feel "  Here  he  paused,  drew 

himself  up  to  his  full  height,  threw  back  his  head  as 
if  about  to  deliver  a  blow  with  it,  and  then  thundered, 


IKON  CITY  141 

"that  such  remarks  are  out  of  order.  Indeed,  I  con 
sider  them  a  violation  of  professional  etiquette.  The 
closing  of  Dover  Street  had  the  due  consideration  of 
the  faculty,  Mr.  President,  and  of  the  administra 
tion,  Mr.  President,  and  of  the  Board  of  Trustees, 
Mr.  President.  Such  unanamity  makes  Mr.  Cosmus's 
remarks  nothing  short  of  impertinent." 

There  was  a  general  rustle  of  applause.  The  "whip" 
continued  to  strike.  "Moreover,  gentlemen  of  the 
faculty,  you  have  been  all  witnesses  to  the  vulgar  in 
trusion  upon  the  privacy  of  this  institution.  Actually, 
Mr.  President,  I  myself  have  seen  foreign  mothers 
sitting  upon  the  senior  bench  suckling  their  infants. 
What  a  spectacle  for  the  young  women  of  this  col 
lege!"  Dean  Georgia  Summers  tried  hard  not  to 
blush.  Professor  Clarke  was  just  a  little  outspoken. 
"In  view  of  these  facts,  I  consider  Mr.  Cosmus's  re 
marks  ill-taken." 

He  sat  down.  Others  clamored  for  the  floor.  Pro 
fessor  Erickson  was  recognized. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said  caustically,  "that  Mr. 
Cosmus  when  he  spoke  of  education  had  a  Chautau- 
qua,  not  a  college,  in  mind." 

There  is  something  damning  in  a  phrase.  Profes 
sor  Erickson's  was  of  that  kind.  It  dissolved  all  op 
position  into  laughter.  And  it  endured.  Thereafter 
the  "Chautauqua  brand  of  education"  appeared  in 
every  one's  mind  when  Cosmus's  name  was  men 
tioned. 

So  Cosmus  failed  to  make  them  "see."  Three 
months  of  the  second  year  went  by  in  sight  and  hear 
ing  of  the  great  outer  drama  of  a  world  in  flux.  Never 
a  note  seemed  to  pierce  the  calm  of  Crandon  Hill 
College,  or  the  complacency  of  Iron  City.  Cosmus, 


142  IRON  CITY 

alone  save  for  Sarah  Blackstone,  despaired.  Many 
a  day  he  resolved  to  resign,  and  go  to  France  for  serv 
ice.  After  the  faculty  meeting  that  course  seemed 
more  imperative.  But  he  was  loyal  to  the  few  stu 
dents  who  were  seeing,  and  he  was  aroused  into  a 
fighting  humor.  And  above  all  there  was  Sarah, 
he  met  Walt  Kuhns,  labor  leader,  again. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

RAYMOND,  son,  how  should  you  like  to  go  to 
Massachusetts    and    spend    the    summer    with 
grandfather  Wood?" 

Mrs.  Sill,  in  laces,  reclined  on  a  chaise  longue;  sun- 
shine  fell  through  the  beveled  glass  of  French  win 
dows  in  spots  of  iridescence.  Raymond  saw  them 
from  where  he  was  sitting  near  the  window  overlook 
ing  the  street.  He  had  willingly  stayed  home  from 
chapel  to  talk  to  his  mother. 

"I  don't  know,  Mother,  it  is  pretty  there." 

Patience  Wood  Sill  with  her  daintiness  and  tran 
quillity  always  brought  to  the  surface  in  Raymond  a 
sense  of  peace  and  loveliness. 

"You'll  go  then?"     She  spoke  eagerly. 

"No,  I  think  not,  Mother;  it's  too  dull." 

She  was  disappointed. 

"How  about  the  trip  up  the  Allegash  that  Stephen 
Tyler  spoke  of?" 

"Why  should  I  leave  my  own  home  town  at  all, 
Mother?"  He  said  this  as  one  would  give  a  chal 
lenge.  For  he  was  familiar  with  his  mother's  tact; 
he  knew  that  something  deeper  than  appeared  lay  in 
her  solicitude  for  his  summer  plans. 

She  replied,  "Raymond,  I  have  never  forgiven  your 
grandfather,  Dr.  Sill,  for  not  marrying  my  mother. 
She  wasn't  happy,  you  know,  with  Father."  Raymond 
had  not  known  this  particular  side  of  that  episode,  and 
what  had  that  to  do  with  vacation  ? 

i43 


144  IRON  CITY 

"Well,  Mother?" 

"The  Sills  are  no  judges  of  strong  women,  that's- 
all?" 

"You,  Mother,  were " 

"I'm  not  sure,  son;  I  think  I  married  your  father." 

Patience  Sill  often  resorted  to  frankness  when  it 
was  needed  to  carry  an  argument. 

"But,  Mother?"" 

"You,  Raymond,  are  a  Sill." 

He  saw  now  what  was  coming,  and  yet  he  would 
do  nothing  to  avoid  it. 

She  went  on,  "You  are  seeing  too  much  of  the 
Morton  girl " 

No  third  person,  least  of  all  a  mother,  is  capable  of 
understanding  the  relation  which  exists  between  two 
souls.  By  implication,  Patience  Sill  thought  Margaret 
Morton  weak,  and  nothing,  therefore,  that  Raymond 
could  say  would  alter  her  opinion.  This  he  knew.  He 
was  silent. 

"What  do  you  see  in  her?" 

"She's  a  good  kid." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  not  half  as  attractive  as  Hazel 
Tyler." 

"It's  according  to  your  point  of  view." 

"The  Morton  girl,  Raymond,  is  the  kind  that  women 
are  instinctively  suspicious  of." 

"Jealous  of,  you  mean?" 

His  mother's  talk  had  served  to  give  Raymond  an 
objective  on  his  relationship  with  Margaret.  For  the 
first  time,  he  was  seeing  it  from  the  outside.  Pre 
viously  he  had  accepted  Margaret  as  something  he 
wanted — as  he  accepted  food  and  air.  She  fed  some 
thing  deep  within  him,  something  that  had  to  be  fed, 
and  something  he  did  not  purpose  to  leave  unfed. 


IRON  CITY  145 

And  he  was  surprised,  in  a  sense,  at  his  mother's  seri 
ous  consideration  of  his  association  with  Margaret, 
as  much,  perhaps,  as  he  would  have  been  if  she  had 
said,  "Why,  Raymond,  you  are  breathing  air!"  But 
now  that  he  saw  himself  and  Margaret  as  a  third 
person  saw  them,  there  was  an  impulse  to  resent  his 
sweetheart.  It  was  the  same  impulse  which  makes  a 
little  boy  turn  and  slap  the  little  girl  that  he  is  caught 
playing  with.  Whatever  regard  Raymond  had  for 
Margaret  it  was  not  one  that  would  make  him  sacri 
fice  for  her. 

"Don't  you  think  you  are  taking  this  too  seriously, 
Mamma?" 

"You  are  a  Sill,  dear." 

She  said  this  significantly. 

Raymond  suddenly  saw  that  here  was  an  oppor 
tunity  to  get  something  he  had  wanted  for  a  long 
time.  Perhaps,  by  making  a  concession  to  his  mother 
in  regard  to  Margaret  Morton,  he  could  win  her  alle 
giance  to  a  new  project ;  so  he  said, 

"Mother,  when  I  leave  Iron  City  the  next  time,  I 
go  to  France." 

"To  France!  What  are  you  thinking  of?  To 
fight?" 

"Yes,  to  fight." 

Perhaps  Raymond  was  not  wholly  serious.  What 
he  wanted  was  not  to  go  to  France,  but  to  get  an 
aeroplane. 

"But  before  I  go,  I  want  to  learn  to  fly  in  this  coun 
try.  Can't  you  get  Father  to  let  me  have  a  plane?" 

She  answered  shrewdly. 

"So  that  you  can  break  your  neck,  and  thus  rid 
yourself  of  that  Morton  girl?" 


146  IRON  CITY 

"No,  Mother.  I  should  have  to  go  to  Chicago  to 
learn,  you  know.  It  would  take  six  months." 

Both  enjoyed  this  bout  of  wits. 

"We'll  see,  Raymond." 

Raymond  knew,  and  had  known  since  he  was  a  lad, 
that  when  his  mother  said  "We'll  see,"  the  thing  was 
settled  in  his  favor.  He  went  over  and  kissed  her. 

At  the  door  she  called  him  back. 

"You  won't  get  mixed  up  with  her,  will  you,  dear?" 

She  said  this  imploringly.  Raymond  was  touched 
by  her  concern.  He  said  seriously — more  seriously 
than  he  had  said  anything  else : 

"Never  fear,  Mamma.  I'll  not  marry  Margaret. 
She's  a  jolly  kid,  but " 

He  went  out.  She  heard  his  short,  heavy  step  on 
the  stairs,  and  his  whistle.  But  she  did  not  appear  at 
rest;  she  had  not  liked  something  which  she  had  seen 
in  her  son's  face  when  he  had  said  "Margaret." 

If  Patience  Sill  could  have  followed  Margaret  Mor 
ton's  thoughts  during  the  chapel  service  at  college 
every  morning,  she  might  have  had  evidence  against 
her  son's  sweetheart  more  tangible  than  mere  instinct. 
That  morning  Margaret  had  not  heard  a  word  of  the 
service ;  in  fact,  she  scarcely  ever  did  unless  the  speak 
er  was  young  and  good-looking.  Then  she  listened 
after  a  fashion.  She  often  wondered  why  John  Cos- 
mus  never  led  chapel,  for  she  was  not  aware  of  the 
precise  distinctions  in  rank  in  the  college  hierarchy. 
While  Scripture  was  being  read,  Margaret  often 
stared  amicably  at  him,  hoping  to  get  in  public  a  re 
sponse  which  was  intimate.  She  was  not  given  to 
analysis,  but  if  she  had  been,  she  would  probably  have 
been  aware  that  she  regretted  that  she  no  longer  held 
Cosmus  by  bonds  of  intimacy.  And  she  probably 


IRON  CITY  147 

would  not  have  been  honest  enough  to  confess  that  it 
was  her  own  fault  that  she  no  longer  continued  to  hold 
him.  Somehow  he  forced  her  to  turn  her  better  side 
toward  him.  Her  ruminations  consisted  not  so  much 
of  ideas,  as  recollections,  sensations  and  promised 
pleasures. 

Often  when  she  returned  home  from  chapel,  Mrs. 
Morton  would  say,  "Who  talked  at  chapel  this  morn 
ing,  Margaret?" 

And  invariably  Margaret  would  answer,  "Let's  see, 
I  forget."  Or  she  would  supply  the  deficiency  of 
memory  by  any  name  that  came  to  mind.  Once  she 
had  said,  "That  funny  Professor  Kimbark." 

"What  did  he  say?"  Mrs.  Morton  had  persisted. 

"I  couldn't  hear  well;  you  know  he  'barks'." 

"Margaret,"  Mrs.  Morton  exclaimed  impatiently, 
"I  wish  you  would  be  more  serious,  and  take  more 
interest  in  religion." 

"I'm  waiting  until  St.  Luke's  is  completed,"  and 
her  daughter  glanced  out  of  the  window  to  where  the 
handsome  Gothic  church,  the  center  of  much  of  her 
dreaming,  still  stood  windowless. 

Mrs.  Morton  was  usually  routed  in  these  contests. 

If  Margaret  did  not  care  for  Scriptural  exhortation 
at  chapel,  music  did  have  meaning  for  her.  The  organ 
with  its  breadth  of  feeling,  and  deep  reaches  into  the 
unconscious,  awoke  in  her,  selves  she  did  not  know  she 
possessed.  She  veritably  believed  that  this  was  true 
religious  feeling;  it  was  the  nearest  approach  that 
Margaret,  in  the  flower  of  adolescence,  ever  made  to> 
religious  feeling.  In  reality  music  spoke  to  her  in 
terms  of  images;  spirit  voices  spoke  to  her.  On  the 
largest  stained  glass  window  behind  her,  little  leaves 
danced  in  the  morning  wind.  They  let  a  soft  amber 


148  IRON  CITY 

light  through;  Margaret  could  hear  them  sigh  and 
rustle.  Under  the  spell  of  music  these  leaves  became 
countless  hands  that  caressed  and  loved  her.  She 
could  close  her  eyes,  and  sink  back  in  an  ecstacy  of 
experience,  seeing  and  hearing  nothing.  Often  at 
home  she  spoke  of  the  pleasure  organ  music  gave  her. 
She  said  that  it  made  her  feel  so  religious,  which 
pleased  her  father. 

On  the  particular  morning  when  Raymond  had 
failed  to  appear  at  chapel  because  of  the  conference 
with  his  mother,  Margaret,  on  returning  home,  was 
confronted  by  Mrs.  Morton  and  a  letter. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  it  is,  Mother — from  Dean  With- 
erspoon.  Are  they  going  to  jerk  me  up  on  the  green 
carpet?" 

"Daughter,  this  is  serious.  He  says  you  are  in  dan 
ger  of  failing  in  three  subjects." 

"Did  that  Professor  Cosmus  flunk  me?" 

"No,  his  is  a  C." 

"It's  history,  then?" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Morton  was  perturbed.  She  thought  her 
daughter  on  the  verge  of  disgrace,  and  what  was  more 
she  dreaded  Carl's  anger  should  Maggie  be  forced  to 
leave  school. 

"Now,  Mother,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  this 
is  not  serious,"  Margaret  reassured  her.  "It's  mere 
bluff  on  the  part  of  the  office.  They  always  do  this 
in  order  to  get  you  to  study  harder.  No  one  is  ever 
fired." 

"But,  Maggie,  that  isn't  the  point  You've  got  to 
do  better  for  your  father's  sake." 

"I  suppose  I  should,  but  studying  is  so  beastly  dull." 

"You  are  going  out  too  much." 


IRON  CITY  149 

"Not  half  enough." 

"Maggie,  when  I  was  a  girl  your  age — one  date  a 
week  until  ten  o'clock  sufficed." 

"No  wonder,  there  was  nothing  to  go  to." 

This  angered  Mrs.  Morton  for  some  reason,  and 
once  in  a  while,  in  a  fit  of  anger,  she  would  exert  pa 
rental  authority. 

"Well,"  she  said  firmly,  "just  the  same,  you  can 
not  have  another  date  this  week,  you  understand." 

Margaret,  seeing  what  she  held  dearest  suddenly 
taken  away,  burst  into  tears,  and  delivered  herself  of 
an  unmaidenly  storm  of  words,  ending  by  throwing 
herself  headlong  on  the  davenport.  From  the  depths 
of  the  pillow,  she  struck  back. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes.  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  be  old 
and  ugly  like  you  are  before  I'm  twenty.  All  right, 
Mrs.,  I  will,  I  will." 

More  tears — this  time  Mrs.  Morton  joined  in.  She 
had  been  insulted  by  her  own  daughter.  She  sat  down 
limply  in  a  rocker,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes.  Oh,  the  cruelty  of  youth!  In  time  she  con 
trolled  herself  and  said  with  feigned  composure, 

"I  suppose  you  will  never  know  how  cruel  you  have 
been  until  you  have  a  little  girl  of  your  own.  You 
will  never  appreciate  your  mother  till  then."  This  in 
self-pity;  then  in  a  kind  of  jealous  scorn,  "Suppose 
you  had  a  mother  like  Patience  Sill,  always  lying 
around  in  laces,  and  mixing  paints ;  who'd  take  care  of 
the  house  while  you  were  gadding  round  then?  I'm 
twice  as  sick  as  she  is." 

Some  hidden  chord  of  sympathy  sprang  up  between 
mother  and  daughter.  Perhaps  Margaret  suddenly 
saw  the  pathos  of  her  mother's  position,  or  rather 
she  perhaps  caught  some  glimpses  of  herself — Mar- 


150  IRON  CITY 

garet,  gay,  color-loving,  exuberant — suddenly  struck 
down  by  disease.  Perhaps,  she  even  saw  the  truth 
in  her  mother's  words.  Margaret  knew  that  her 
mother  was  really  a  sick  woman.  Many  a  time,  Mrs. 
Morton  was  on  the  verge  of  losing  her  feeble  hold  on 
Science,  almost  determined  to  consent  to  an  operation. 
Instantly  she  was  on  her  mother's  side. 

"Of  course  you  are,  Mother  dear,"  she  said,  "and 
you  are  a  thousand  times  better  than  Mrs.  Sill.  I  hate 
that  woman." 

That  was  a  good  deal  for  Margaret,  and  it  content 
ed  Mrs.  Morton.  Reparation  had  been  made.  They 
gradually  lowered  their  tones,  dried  their  tears  and  by 
the  time  Carl  came  home  all  signs  of  the  storm  had 
vanished.  Morton  looked  tired. 

"Margaret,  get  my  slippers.  It's  a  wonder  you 
don't  think  of  your  father  once  in  a  while,"  he  said. 
He  never  would  have  spoken  to  Margaret  thus,  had 
he  not  been  very  tired. 

"What  is  it,  Carl?"  said  his  wife. 

Morton  seldom  "brought  business  home." 

"I  am  not  sure,"  he  said.  "I  fear  trouble.  Sill 
thinks  it  is  nothing,  but  I  know." 

"Oh,  I  guess  it'll  come  out  all  right,  Father,"  Mrs. 
Morton  replied  with  her  usual  optimism. 

At  the  supper  table,  the  telephone  rang.  Margaret 
answered  it  eagerly.  Mrs.  Morton  listened. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Ray?" 

*  *         *         * 
"Oh,  quit  your  kidding." 

*  *         *         * 
"Why,  Ray,  I " 

*  *         *         * 


IRON  CITY  151 

"What  time?" 

*  *         *         * 

"Yes,  I  guess  so." 

*  *         #         * 
"Of  course,  I'm  crazy  to." 

*  *         *         * 

"Good-by." 

She  heard  Margaret's  voice  trail  off  into  tender 
ness.  She  suddenly  saw  her  daughter  in  a  new  light. 

Mrs.  Morton  understood.  She  got  Margaret's  eye, 
when  she  came  back  to  the  table.  That  look  seemed 
to  say,  "Say  nothing  to  father.  He's  tired." 

Margaret  knew  that  she  had  won. 

In  the  kitchen,  Mrs.  Morton  asked,  "You  made  a 
date  for  to-night?" 

"Yes,  I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind.  It's  the  Coun 
try  Club  dance.  I'll  swear  off  to-morrow." 

"Is  it  with  Ray?" 

"Yes." 

"All  right." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"CURING  the  winter  that  followed,  Cosmus  won- 
*~^  dered  often  about  P.  C.  Smithkins's  remark : 
"We  have  no  literature  in  America  because  America 
is  too  prosperous."  Indeed  Iron  City,  as  part  of 
America,  seemed  too  prosperous  to  know  in  any  way 
the  depths  of  life.  Gloom  or  tragedy,  it  could  not 
know;  hustling,  energetic,  progressive,  it  was  for  all 
the  world  like  a  boy  who  had  never  encountered  grief, 
poverty,  death.  The  dim  corners  of  a  vast  world  gave 
back  vaguely  echoes  of  a  world-war.  Iron  City  lay 
with  its  specious  sides  turned  up  to  the  sun  a  warning 
to  knockers,  muckrakers  and  agitators.  Problems? 
There  could  be  no  problems;  for  proof,  look  and  see. 
There  were  no  slums — at  least  save  that  bad  row  of 
houses  along  Guy  Street ;  the  street  cars  ran  regularly ; 
gay  crowds  thronged  well-paved  streets;  the  factories 
had  more  than  they  could  do ;  the  banks  were  bursting ; 
there  had  never  been  a  panic  in  the  city.  Where  were1 
the  problems?  For  the  onrush  of  the  human  tide 
seeps  through  the  social  break-waters  so  gradually 
that  one  scarcely  discerns  in  the  tiny  capillary  at  one's 
feet  the  beat  of  the  agitated  sea  beyond.  Even  Cos 
mus,  trained  student  of  society  that  he  was,  often  was 
tempted  to  close  his  eyes  and  drift,  so  trifling  at  times 
are  the  concrete  incidents  through  which  the  great 
principles  beat,  and  reveal  themselves. 

One  evening  at  work  in  his  room,  Cosmus  was  in 
terrupted  by  the  shambling  feet  of  Samuel  Curtis  upon 

152 


IRON  CITY  153 

the  stairs.  In  the  two  years  that  Cosmus  had  lived 
at  the  Curtis  home,  he  had  come  no  nearer  to  solving 
the  mystery  of  the  landlord.  Sad  always,  retiring  al 
ways,  thwarted  by  life,  Curtis  remained  an  enigma. 

Was  he  going  by  ?  Cosmus  listened.  No,  he  stopped 
outside  the  door.  This  time  Curtis,  always  formal, 
did  not  knock.  He  slowly  opened  the  door,  and  stood 
nervously  upon  the  threshold.  Without  looking  once 
at  John,  he  began  in  his  high,  shrill  voice  to  stumble 
into  a  denunciation. 

"You'll  have  to  leave  this  house,  Mister  Cosmus. 
I'm  sorry,  but  we  can't  keep  you  here  any  longer. 
You'll  have  to  leave.  I  understand  that  the  Missus 
across  the  street  wants  roomers.  You  had  better  go 
over  there.  I'll  set  you  in  the  street  in  a  minute,  do 
ye  hear  me?" 

Cosmus  thought  it  was  some  ill-timed  joke.  He 
tried  to  smile.  Curtis  in  a  kind  of  subjective  agita 
tion  continued  his  shrill  invective,  his  voice  rising 
higher  and  higher,  finally  breaking  at  the  top,  then  be 
ginning  the  crescendo  all  over  again. 

"This  house  can't  shelter  you  any  longer,  Mister 
Cosmus.  This  is  the  house  of  Curtis,  sir,  and  it  can't 
shelter  you  any  longer.  It  always  has  had  the  pleas- 
antest  relations  with  the  college,  with  Crandon  Hill 
College.  But  times  do  change " 

"But,  Mr.  Curtis,  explain  yourself." 

"You  can  get  other  rooms  across  the  street,  Mister 
Cosmus.  We  can't  shelter  you  any  longer.  Please  go, 
or  I'll  set  you  in  the  street;  I'll  set  you  in  the  street 
myself." 

Anger,  so  foreign  to  Samuel  Curtis,  seemed  to  rack 
his  frame.  He  stood  so  sad  and  antique,  so  trem 
blingly  in  the  doorway,  that  Cosmus  could  only  pity 


ii54  IRON  CITY 

him.  It  was  useless  to  argue  with  him  while  in  this 
unnatural  humor. 

"You  know  me  well  enough,  Mr.  Curtis,  to  know 
that  I  don't  deserve  insult  at  your  hands.  I  refuse 
to  budge  until  you  prefer  some  charge  that  I  can  an 
swer." 

"This  house  can't  shelter  you  any  longer " 

"Yes,  I  know.    But  why?" 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  Mr.  Cosmus,  but  you  hain't 
fit  to  teach  at  Crandon  Hill  College — you  with  your 
notions  about  woman's  freedom,  labor  and  anarchy — • 
you  with  your  villifying  of  good  President  Crandon 
behind  his  back,  and  your  talk  about  a  world-order. 
You  hain't  fit,  that's  all.  I'm  sorry  to  put  you  in  tin 
street,  sir,  but  the  Curtis  family  have  always  had  pleas 
ant  relations  with  the  college.  You  go." 

Samuel  Curtis  had  never  seemed  more  of  an  enigma 
than  he  did  in  that  moment.  Cosmus,  accustomed  as 
he  was  to  the  analysis  of  human  nature,  found  himself 
baffled.  He  stood  irresolute,  his  mind  running  back 
over  the  months  he  had  spent  in  Iron  City,  the  first 
impression  of  Curtis  at  the  station,  his  ride  with  him 
about  town,  his  cry  "It  would  be  a  travesty  on  Father," 
his  nocturnal  vigils  in  the  garden.  With  these  reflec 
tions  came,  too,  a  mild  melancholy,  always  incident  to 
reminiscence  and  the  sudden  realization  of  change- 
growth.  He  had  come  two  years  ago  into  this  room 
an  uninformed  boy;  he  was  leaving  it  a  man — a  rebel, 
made  so  by  men  like  Samuel  Curtis. 

"Very  well,"  Cosmus  said.  "Come  back  in  fifteen 
minutes,  and  you  can  help  me  set  my  trunk  into  the 
street." 

Curtis  seemed  surprised.    He  turned  and  paused. 


IRON  CITY  155 

"I  hate  to  do  it,  Mr.  Cosmus,"  he  said  haltingly, 
"but  Father  would " 

"No  trouble  at  all.    I  thank  you  for  the  diversion." 

And  so  it  happened  that  Cosmus  found  himself  bag 
and  baggage  in  the  street,  the  long  rays  of  the  after 
noon  sun  falling  across  the  lawn  and  Sarah  Blackstone 
coming  up  the  walk. 

She  seemed  to  take  the  situation  in  at  once.  At  any 
rate,  she  paid  no  attention  to  the  baggage. 

"You  haven't  seen  anything,  Mr.  Cosmus,  of  a 
Bertha  Livinsky,  age  sixteen,  have  you  ?"  She  smiled. 
"You  see  I  have  been  out  adventuring  this  afternoon, 
looking  for  a  lost  Polish  girl." 

Curiously  enough,  in  that  moment  Cosmus  remem 
bered  that  he  had  never  asked  Sarah  about  Sidney 
Haynes. 

"Here  is  a  nice  problem  in  practical  sociology  for 
you,  Professor  Cosmus."  Her  humor  was  irresistible; 
she  stood  before  him  the  highly  trained,  sagacious 
woman  of  the  new  century;  and  yet  to  Cosmus  the 
rare  delicacy  of  her  beauty  was  never  more  ingra 
tiating. 

"I'm  always  interested  in  problems."  He  wanted 
to  call  her  Sarah.  "Go  on,  tell  me." 

"It's  strange,"  she  answered,  "but  the  whole  prob 
lem  of  Bertha  Livinsky — of  all  Berthas,  Gretchens, 
for  that  matter — is  pretty  much  a  question  of  priest 
and  lover.  I  was  talking  to  Father  Sobieski  the  other 
day  and  he  said  quite  philosophically,  'I  try  to  collect 
Easter  money,  I  can't.  But  wait,  at  death  I  get 
them.'  The  pressure  of  our  economic  world  is  too 
much  for  some  of  the  aliens;  they  find  that  they  are 
not  so  efficient  when  they  come  from  the  parochial 
schools;  so  they  go  over  to  the  public." 


156  IRON  CITY 

"They  learned  the  meaning  of  our  phrase,  'It 
pays.'  " 

"Yes,  and  little  else.  They  are  pitiable  in  their  ig 
norance.  This  morning  when  I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Liv- 
insky,  across  the  lower  St.  Paul  tracks,  she  was  sitting 
on  the  back-porch  looking  dismally  out  over  the  filthy 
yard. 

"'Where's  Bertha?'  I  asked. 

"  'Don't  know.  Gone  to  get  work/  she  said  sul 
lenly. 

"'When?' 

"  Three  days/ 

"'What  work?' 

"  'Don't  know.     She  read  in  paper.' 

"'Which  paper?' 

"  'Don't  know,'  and  that  is  all  that  I  could  get  out 
of  her  at  first.  She  just  sat  there  stolid  and  suspicious 
until  she  found  out  that  I  wasn't  from  the  Board  of 
United  Charities,  and  that  I  had  known  Bertha  at  the 
Machine  Works.  Then  she  crumpled  up  and  cried." 

"And  you  have  found  no  trace  of  Bertha?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I've  learned  something.  You  see  here's 
where  the  lover  enters;  in  most  cases  there's  a  man." 

She  did  not  pause  here,  but  Cosmus's  mind  strayed 
for  a  moment  away  from  Bertha  to  the  woman  before 
him.  At  times,  he  was  apprehensive  of  the  energy 
contained  in  her — the  thrust  and  whip  of  her  mind. 
"And  who  is  the  man  in  your  case,  Sarah  Blackstone?" 
he  was  thinking.  And  then  he  remembered  again  that 
he  had  not  asked  her  about  Sidney  Haynes. 

"You  see  marriage  in  most  European  nations  is  a 
social  and  family  matter.  Here  in  America  it  is  in 
dividual  and  romantic.  Bertha's  mother  can  not  ad 
vise  her,  because  she  was  not  wooed  as  Bertha  is 


IRON  CITY  157 

wooed.  And  Bertha  can  not  help  herself,  because  she 
has  lost  touch  with  the  social  significance  of  marriage. 
Affairs  like  hers  as  a  rule  are  little  short  of  seduction. 
If  she  is  lucky,  poor  thing,  she  gets  money  for  her 
child,  and  then  she  begins  all  over  again  to  conquer 
that  world  where  woman's  happiness  begins  and 
ends." 

John  was  thinking  of  education,  and  the  part  Cran- 
don  Hill  College  might  play  in  the  life  of  Bertha  Liv- 
insky. 

"And  if  you  found  Bertha?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently.  "If  I  did, 
I  could  do  little.  That's  the  pity  of  it.  Sometimes  I 
suspect  myself,  am  afraid  that  I'm  out  to  find  happi 
ness  for  myself  only.  You  see,  when  a  person  is  en 
dowed  with  energy,  sitting  at  a  desk  all  day  does  not 
satisfy  her;  I  am  afraid  that  in  the  vague  hope  of  help 
ing  Bertha,  I  am  trying  to  do  something  for  Sarah." 

She  had  analyzed  that  social  problem,  Cosmus 
thought,  with  a  directness  and  objectivity  quite  mas 
culine,  and  yet  he  was  keenly  aware  again  of  an  almost 
child-like  wistfulness  in  her  tone  and  face. 

"If  you  know  the  man — there's  marriage." 

She  shot  him  a  swift  glance. 

"Marriage!  Do  you  think  I  should  want  to  con 
demn  her  to  life  with  a  man  like  Bill  Daggett?" 

"You  know  him,  then?" 

"Yes,  it  no  doubt  was  Daggett." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"A  foreman  at  Sill's  plant,  and,  to  tangle  your  skein 
of  things  the  more,  philosopher,  a  college  man  for  two 
years."  She  paused,  and  became  self-conscious  a  mo 
ment,  as  if  aware  of  what  Samuel  Curtis  would  think 
of  her  if  he  knew  what  subject  they  were  discussing. 


158  IRON  CITY 

"No,  I  think  too  much  of  marriage  to  condemn  Ber 
tha  to  slavery.  She's  better  off  alone.  When  she 
comes  back,  I  shall  try  to  show  her,  if  I  can,  that  she 
has  not  strayed  into  unpardonable  shame,  and  save 
her  from  the  despair  that  has  been  woman's  lot  all 
these  years." 

Cosmus  was  never  more  sure  of  the  fineness  of  the 
woman  before  him.  Before  they  could  resume,  a  dray 
drove  up  for  his  trunk. 

"I'm  moving,  you  see,"  he  explained. 

She  did  not  answer. 

The  drayman  bawled,  "Where  to?" 

Cosmus  was  at  a  loss.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
say.  In  the  excitement  that  Curtis  had  caused  him,  he 
had  overlooked  the  important  trifle  of  a  roof  over  his 
head.  He  hesitated.  The  drayman  repeated  his  ques 
tion,  impatiently. 

Sarah  whispered,  "Why  don't  you  go  to  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.?" 

Why,  of  course.  Just  the  thing.  He  felt  grateful  to 
her,  spoke  to  the  drayman,  and  turned.  "May  I  walk 
along  with  you?" 

When  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  Curtis  house, 
she  turned  to  him  eagerly  and  said,  "You  mustn't  be 
too  hard  on  Samuel  Curtis." 

"You  know  all  about  it,  then  ?" 

"No,  I  only  guessed.  You  see,  knowing  Samuel 
Curtis,  I  knew  the  clash  was  inevitable." 

"I  can't  make  him  out.    He's  'queer',  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,  queer,  if  to  live  in  a  world  apart  from  the 
real  is  to  be  queer.  You  see,  Professor  Cosmus,  you 
are  aiming  to  destroy  the  last  vestige  of  his  older 
world." 

"I  ?" 


IRON  CITY  159 

"Yes.  Curtis  was  once  owner  of  the  R.  Sill  plant 
^long  ago — and  Sill  destroyed  the  semblance  of  the 
thing  he  loved.  Now  you  are  laying  your  hand  on 
the  college — his  college." 

"His  college?     I  don't  understand." 

"Well,  you  see  the  elder  Curtis  was  a  promoter  of 
the  finest  type.  He  was  a  professor  in  the  college,  but 
in  addition,  an  organizer  outside.  He  established  the 
Iron  City  Savings  Bank  and  Trust  Company — it  took 
him  ten  years  to  create  the  sentiment,  write  the  bills, 
introduce  them  in  the  legislature,  and  establish  the  in 
stitution.  He  secured  patents  for  pumps  that  laid  the 
foundation  for  the  Enterprise  Pumping  Company, 
which  R.  Sill  later  acquired.  He  went  to  the  legisla 
ture — and  was  a  candidate  for  governor.  .  .  .  Well, 
it's  not  easy  to  be  the  son  of  a  father  like  that." 

Cosmus  recalled  vividly  his  drive  with  Samuel  Cur 
tis,  and  the  man's  careful  itinerary,  reviewing  all  his 
father's  monuments.  "But  I  can't  understand  why  it 
should  make  Curtis  a  fool." 

"Curtis — the  son,  I  mean — had  a  controlling  share 
in  the  Enterprise  Pumping  Co.  and  could  have  passed 
on  into  Sill's  regime,  but  he  shrank  from  the  sordid- 
ness  of  business.  His  wife  didn't  help  him  any — she 
was  an  Eastern  woman.  Curtis  saw  that  R.  Sill  wasn't 
a  gentleman ;  at  least  after  his  father's  kind.  Business 
oppressed  him,  Sill  towered  over  him.  The  game 
wasn't  worth  the  candle — he  let  the  business  go  for 
nothing.  Such  things  happen,  you  know." 

"I  see.  Curtis  is  an  ancestor  worshiper,  or  a  sort 
of  1'Aiglon?" 

"A  misfit,  I  should  say ;  a  product  of  culture  for  its 
own  sake.  They  say  he  was  the  best  Greek  scholar 


160  IRON  CITY 

in  the  college.  What  that  plant  might  have  been  up 
there,  if  he,  not  Sill,  owned  it." 

"It's  curious,  but  there  seem  to  be  just  two  facts  in 
Iron  City;  that  factory  and  this  college." 

"It's  our  bias,  I  suppose." 

They  had  come  to  Sarah's  door,  but  had  passed  on 
by  tacit  understanding  out  the  leafy  street  to  the  fields. 
Sarah  had  managed  even  by  her  dispassionate  narra 
tive  to  rehabilitate  the  Curtis  Cosmus  first  had  known, 
the  night  wanderer  on  the  flats.  After  all,  there  is 
nothing  more  thrilling  or  sobering  than  vagrant 
glimpses  into  other  personalities — and  Cosmus  felt 
that  he  had  at  last  seen  the  real  Samuel  Curtis.  All 
impatience  with  the  man  was  gone. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  I  should  respect  Samuel 
Curtis  for  setting  me  in  the  street.  For  a  man  who 
inherits  his  ethics,  theology  and  manners,  that  was  a 
pretty  bold  act.  For  once  he  was  original.  But  the 
college,  what  of  the  college?" 

Sarah  turned  to  him,  her  face  alight,  and  impulsive 
ly  clasped  his  arm.  "I  wanted  you  to  say  that,"  she 
said. 

"You're  a  good  friend,  aren't  you?" 

She  did  not  answer.  He  was  sensible  of  her  warm 
touch  upon  his  arm,  and  in  a  minute,  when  she  dropped 
her  hand,  he  reached  down  and  drew  it  through  his 
arm  again. 

"You  might  fall,"  he  said. 

They  both  seemed  satisfied  with  that  explanation. 
Sincere  as  they  were  with  each  other  in  all  human 
matters,  they  practiced  deception  when  it  came  to  emo 
tion.  Tremblingly  they  were  reaching  along  racial 
avenues  of  speech,  groping  dimly  for  each  other — like 
children — in  that  vaster  world  of  instinct  and  love.  So 


IRON  CITY  161 

they  walked  silently,  thrilling  to  the  beauty  of  later 
evening.  It  seemed  to  Cosmus  as  if  he  had  passed  out 
of  the  world  of  factories,  crowds,  problems,  into  a 
great,  wide  plain  peaceful  and  dim,  where  he  walked 
with  one  whose  mind  he  knew  without  speech.  And 
that  one  was  almost  God. 

And  yet,  how  far  apart  these  two  were.  They  were 
of  such  natures  that  they  could  not  trust  mere  feeling 
or  sentiment;  they  had  to  translate  those  sublime  stir 
rings  of  sex  into  words  and  deeds.  And  so  they  were 
kept  apart.  If  Cosmus  had  trusted  his  mood,  and  had 
lifted  her  then  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her,  he  would 
have  found  the  eager  passion  of  a  deep  and  pure  wom 
an  meeting  his.  He  did  not.  Out  of  such  relations  as 
theirs  may  come  poetry;  but  the  ecstasy  of  passion  is 
postponed  and  perhaps  never  comes.  So  Carlyle 
missed  the  fullest  union  and  broke  Jane  Welsh's  heart. 

When  Cosmus  had  brought  her  to  her^gate,  he  had 
courage  to  say: 

"Sarah,  who  is  Sidney  Haynes?" 

He  heard  the  quick  intake  of  her  breath,  but  there 
were  no  signs  of  embarrassment  when  she  said : 

"Mother  Curtis  told  you;  she's  so  curious." 

She  paused.    He  waited. 

"John,  I'd  rather  not  tell  you.  You  might  not  un 
derstand — and — he's  no " 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  him  John,  but 
that  did  not  make  up  for  his  disappointment.  He 
felt  as  if  she  were  obliged  to  tell  him,  if  she  had  had 
another  lover.  That  was  the  trouble  with  them ;  since 
they  depended  on  a  medium  so  treacherous  as  words, 
words  so  many  had  to  pass  between  them,  that  they  had 
to  suffer  much  before  they  reached  that  higher  ground 
of  sure  and  permanent  understanding.  With  her  re- 


162  IRON  CITY 

fusal,  the  inexplicable  barrier  was  erected  again  be 
tween  them.  The  chords  that  were  flowing  like  music 
from  one  to  another  snapped.  He  seemed  to  see  her 
only  as  the  keen,  self-contained,  above  all  forbidding 
woman  of  the  world.  Perhaps  jealousy,  or  some  sub 
lime  sense  of  being  thwarted,  aroused  him ;  at  any  rate, 
he  was  angry — coolly,  but  passionately  angry.  He  in 
tended  to  hurt  her  when  he  said : 

"Some  people  are  all  mind  and  no  body,  and  they 
somehow  have  a  great  capacity  for  hurting  their 
friends." 

He  could  see  her  figure,  even  in  the  dim  light, 
straighten  and  tighten. 

"What?"  she  said  in  startled  tones. 

He  was  ashamed.  He  did  not  want  to  see  her  that 
way.  He  turned  to  look  up  the  street  where  the  colo 
nial  spire  of  the  First  Church  scraped  the  sky,  and 
then  he  spoke  again,  as  calmly  as  he  could : 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  been  waiting  to  tell  you  that  Walt 
Kuhns  has  come  back  to  organize  a  union,  and  I  have 
decided,  if  I  see  a  way,  to  help  him  all  I  can." 

He  paused,  "It's  only  right."  There  was  no  an 
swer.  What  was  the  matter?  Was  she  going  to  be 
a  fool?  He  turned.  She  was  gone! 


CHAPTER  XV 

ONE  morning  when  Jerry  Mulvaney,  machinist, 
walked  into  the  machine-shop  at  the  Sill  plant, 
he  found  Bill  Daggett,  foreman,  bending  over  the 
form  of  his  pal  Callahan.  The  big  foreman's  knee 
was  planted  on  Cally's  chest,  and  his  heavy  fingers 
were  closing  over  the  little  workman's  windpipe.  Al 
ready  Cally's  eyes  had  begun  to  bulge., 

"What  'cher  call  it,  Bill,"  Mulvaney  said  to  Dag 
gett,  "a  Jew  picnic?" 

"No,  Callahan  here  says  that  during  Lent  he's  game 
not  to  swear,  and  I  just  bet  him  a  dollar  that  he  would 
swear  before  seven  o'clock." 

Mulvaney  was  not  a  Catholic,  but  his  ire  was 
aroused  at  the  sight  of  the  punishment  his  pal  was 
getting. 

"Auh,  no,  you  don't.  Take  your  knee  off  his  chest, 
you  big  stiff." 

Daggett  looked  up,  mystified,  his  little  eyes  blinking 
in  his  large  head,  the  great  bellows  of  his  chest  work 
ing  beneath  his  sweater.  He  was  a  huge  man — all  of 
six  feet  four  in  height,  and  close  to  three  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds.  Princeton  College  remembers  him  as 
the  star  fullback  of  the  late  nineties. 

Mulvaney  was  near  the  lathe,  fingering  a  piece  of 
lead  pipe,  and  looking  nasty  about  the  gills. 

Daggett  relaxed  his  hold  on  Callahan's  throat,  rose 
heavily,  and  stood  eyeing  the  two  Irishmen.  He  was 

163 


164  IRON  CITY 

mad  with  humiliation,  and  what  had  begun  in  cruel 
jest  gave  promise  of  ending  in  war. 

"Whew!"  snarled  Daggett  through  set  teeth.  "I 
can  whip  both  of  you  little  devils." 

"No,  you  can't  either,  you  big  tub,"  said  Mulvaney 
coolly.  "You  can't  even  handle  me." 

Daggett,  like  a  huge  bear,  moved  cautiously  towards 
Mulvaney.  Callahan  arose  dizzily,  and,  paying  no  at 
tention  to  the  irate  foreman,  went  to  the  hydrant  to 
wash  his  face;  Mulvaney  threw  down  the  lead  pipe, 
and  retreated  behind  the  lathe. 

"What's  the  matter,  splinter,  'fraid  of  me?"  asked 
Bill. 

"No,  you  hogshead,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,"  said 
Jerry.  "I'm  going  to  wear  you  out  chasin'  me,  and 
then  I  am  going  to  sail  in  and  give  you  the  worst 
lickin'  of  your  life." 

Daggett,  all  the  angrier,  tried  to  reach  across  the 
machine  to  seize  his  antagonist.  The  light-footed 
Irishman  easily  eluded  him.  Round  and  round  the 
machine  they  went,  Mulvaney  smiling  derisively,  and 
keeping  up  a  spirited  fire  of  insult. 

"Go  to  it,  log-foot." 

"Don't  spill  your  guts.  Tub." 

"Hi,  there,  fire-truck." 

In  time  the  tactics  of  the  Irishman  began  to  accom 
plish  their  purpose.  Already,  either  from  anger  or 
weariness,  Daggett's  breath  was  coming  in  gasps;  and 
passion  had  risen  to  blind  his  eyes  with  confusion. 

"Tongue  hanging  out,  bullock,"  sneered  Jerry. 

He  suddenly  moved  easily  out  into  the  clear  space 
between  the  lathe  and  the  door.  Daggett  lunged  for 
him;  there  was  another  round  of  foot-work.  Like 
master  wrestlers,  feinting  for  a  hold,  little  Irishman 


IRON  CITY  165 

and  giant  foreman  circled  back  and  forth.  Other 
workmen  came  in,  and  stood  grouped  about  the 
benches,  enjoying  the  fight.  The  room  was  awe 
somely  silent. 

Suddenly  Mulvaney's  arm  shot  out  fiercely,  straight 
to  Daggett's  vitals.  Down  came  the  big  man's  hands 
over  his  stomach,  and  his  breath  sang  through  his 
teeth. 

"Ah." 

In  a  flash,  Mulvaney's  arm  swept  through  an  arc 
from  his  heel  to  his  opponent's  chin  in  an  uppercut 
that  was  a  marvel  to  all  who  saw;  and  down  went 
Daggett's  big  form  to  the  floor.  It  was  a  wicked 
blow,  and  the  foreman  lay  dazed  under  the  lathe,  like 
a  pitiable  thing. 

He  was  not  desperately  hurt.  In  five  minutes  he 
had  picked  himself  up  and  had  the  men  at  work. 

That  noon  Bill  Daggett  was  taking  bets  that  Jerry 
Mulvaney  could  whip  any  man  in  the  plant.  The 
news  of  the  fight  spread  as  on  underground  cables, 
and  no  one  covered  the  offer.  Daggett  and  Mulvaney 
became  friends.  Daggett,  with  the  large  geniality  of 
big  men,  found  in  the  smaller  one  much  to  fear  and 
admire,  and  Mulvaney,  shrewd  and  self-seeking,  ac 
cepted  and  enjoyed  the  homage.  Daggett  was  not  a 
bad  fellow.  He  seldom  showed  his  brutish  nature 
and  he  hid  his  passions  well.  He  sang  tenor,  pounded 
the  piano,  and  recounted  gridiron  exploits  with  con 
siderable  rough  charm. 

Not  long  after  the  fight,  Mulvaney  said  to  his  new- 
*y-made  friend : 

"Look-a-here,   Bill,   you've  got  to  come  into   the 


"Go  to  hell,  will  you;  none  of  that  crowd  for  me. 


166  IRON  CITY 

They're  crooked,  all  of  them — and  it  costs  too  damned 
much." 

It  was  said  that  Daggett  could  swear  longer  and 
louder  than  anybody  in  the  plant.  He  himself  was 
reported  as  having  said : 

"My  English  prof  used  to  say  that  my  vocabulary 
was  damned  limited,  but  he  was  mistaken.  I  can  talk 
to  men  all  right  with  these" — here  he  held  up  his  heavy 
fists,  and  let  loose  a  string  of  oaths. 

But  Mulvaney,  knowing  his  man,  was  not  to  be 
frightened  by  the  vigor  of  his  expletives.  "That's  all 
right,  Bill ;  I  understand  how  you  feel.  But  have  you 
looked  into  this  matter  ?  You've  never  been  a  member 
of  the  union,  have  you?" 

"Naw,  don't  want  to  be.  I  was  beaten  up  in  Dayton 
once  by  a  crowd  who  was  just  going  out,  and  I  don't 
intend  to  forget  it  very  soon." 

Daggett  looked  ugly.  Mulvaney  was  not  discour 
aged.  He  saw  the  advantage  of  having  Bill  Daggett 
with  them.  Daggett  was  popular,  huge,  and  a  fore 
man,  and  moreover,  he  was  a  particular  friend  of  R. 
Sill's.  Sill  was  inclined  to  have  favorites  among  the 
foremen. 

Bill  continued,  "I'd  advise  you,  Mulvaney,  to  leave 
this  business  alone.  That  man  Kuhns  don't  know  how 
to  manage  men,  and  anyway,  he's  an  intruder — never 
worked  in  a  factory  in  his  life,  did  he?" 

"Leave  that  to  me,  I'll  stand  by  Kuhns,  but,  by  God ! 
if  you  peach  on  us,  I'll  smash  every  bone  in  your 
body." 

Daggett  knew  that  Mulvaney  meant  what  he  said. 

"Who's  goin'  to  peach  ?  But  as  a  friend,  I'd  advise 
you  to  keep  out  of  it.  Look  here,  you  can  get  what 
you  want  if  you'll  only  handle  old  Sill  right.  Why, 


IRON  CITY  167 

I've  made  him  look  like  a  monkey  for  four  years. 
Shine  up  to  him  and  say  'Morning,  Mr.  Sill,  wonder 
ful  plant  you've  got  here.'  It  gets  him  every  time; 
all  these  God-Almightys  love  taffy." 

"Yes,  you're  a  hell  of  a  college  man,  you  are,"  Mul- 
vaney  answered,  "gettin'  your  way  by  bunk  and  graft. 
But  what  of  us  others;  there  are  four  thousand  men 
getting  only  $2.65  a  day,  and  eighty  of  us  go  to  the 
hospital  a  day." 

"Well,  you  don't  get  me,"  he  said  defiantly. 

Mulvaney  was  disgusted.  He  turned  away,  for  a 
moment  beaten,  and  then  he  bethought  himself  of  an 
other  approach  to  the  big  foreman.  He  came  back, 
and  stood  solemnly  in  front  of  Daggett. 

"Daggett,"  he  said  slowly,  "once  more,  you  better 
come  in."  He  paused  and  then  added  with  heavy  fi 
nality,  "I  know  about  Bertha  Levinsky." 

The  face  of  the  big  foreman  was  a  picture  of  woe, 
anger,  humiliation.  He  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to 
destroy  his  companion. 

" damn  you,  for  mentioning  that  to  me."  He 

couldn't  speak  further.  Taking  a  stogie  out  of  his 
pocket,  he  bit  at  it  savagely,  then  lit  it. 

Mulvaney  stood  coolly  staring  at  him. 

Daggett  spoke  at  last,  smiling.  "Well,  when  do 
you  meet?" 

"To-night,  above  Willard's  saloon." 

So  it  was  that  Daggett  was  won  for  the  union.  It 
might  have  been  better  if  he  had  stayed  out,  but  Mul 
vaney  in  his  zealousness  for  the  cause,  and  in  his 
Celtic  eagerness  for  power,  thought  well  of  forcing 
Daggett  in.  No  one  could  doubt  Mulvaney's  loyalty 
to  the  union  idea  (his  father  had  suffered  years  be 
fore  at  Bridgeport  for  the  cause).  But  the  project 


i68  IRON  CITY 

afforded,  too,  an  outlet  for  his  peculiar  love  of  persua 
sion,  and  when  that  failed,  of  coercion,  and  Daggett 
presented  a  subject  for  coercion  hard  to  resist. 

That  night  Walt  Kuhns  drew  his  comrades  about 
him.  There  were  Mulvaney,  and  Daggett,  and  a  so 
cialist  by  the  name  of  Grover,  and  Duke,  a  negro,  and, 
most  interesting  of  all,  Mary,  the  Lithuanian  woman. 

Mary,  as  everybody  called  her,  was  a  statuesque, 
queenly  sort  of  a  woman,  with  quick  comprehension, 
broad  grasp  upon  human  affairs,  and  a  passionate  re 
gard  for  what  she  called  her  community.  She  spoke 
thirteen  languages  fluently,  and  had  done  much 
through  them  to  hold  the  more  recent  aliens  to  a  re 
sponsible  citizenship.  From  her  small  grocery  store 
» — presided  over  by  Peter,  her  husband — she  reached 
out  in  every  direction  into  Iron  City's  life. 

There  was  a  kind  of  stubborn  fearlessness,  a  vivac 
ity  of  utterance,  a  fervid  love  of  fellows  that  marked 
her  as  exceptional.  Though  she  had  been  reared  a 
Catholic,  she  had  rebelled  against  the  Church  and  was 
sending  her  children  to  the  public  schools  and  to  the 
Baptist  Sunday  School.  Kuhns  had  given  her  a  Cause, 
a  something  that  appealed  to  her  quick  maternal  feel 
ing. 

Next  to  her  was  Duke.  He  was  a  recent  negro  ac 
quisition  to  Iron  City.  All  his  life  had  been  spent  in 
migratory  occupations.  He  knew  the  rolling  popula 
tion  of  America  as  few  knew  it.  He  had  been  born  in 
an  Iowa  boarding  house  for  transient  negroes ;  he  had 
sold  papers  on  the  streets  of  New  Orleans,  threading 
the  maze  of  the  underworld.  And  for  thirty  years  a 
porter  on  transcontinental  trains,  he  had  seen  the 
white  man  off  his  guard — away  from  his  own  town — 
in  the  first  abandon  of  vacations.  He  had  seen  bish- 


IRON  CITY  169 

ops  drunk,  preachers  seeking  the  alluring  immunities 
of  women,  statesmen  seduced  by  flattery.  He  always 
saw  human  nature  weary  from  travel,  turning  upper 
most  its  petty  side,  and  he  had  come  to  believe  that 
the  white  man  shared  the  frailties  of  the  negro  and 
had  merely  arrogated  to  himself,  through  numbers, 
the  position  of  superiority. 

And  yet  Duke  was  not  filled  with  race  hatred.  By 
fraternizing  with  the  whites,  he  became  like  them.  He 
had  erased  all  accent  from  his  speech;  was  alert  and 
affable  in  manner,  yet  reserved  and  self-contained. 
He  took  genuine  pride  in  his  race  and  family — "The 
Dukes  of  Virginia,  sir," — not  "sah";  and  he  had  be 
come  a  rare  judge  of  men  and  women.  He  had  ob 
tained,  too,  much  information  in  his  travels,  and,  by 
becoming  the  official  intimate  of  cultivated  people,  the 
frequenters  of  Pullmans,  he  had  come  into  vivid  touch 
with  the  thought,  the  trend  of  public  sentiment,  and 
the  gossip  of  the  day. 

Duke  had  quit  portering  to  set  up  a  store  on  Osgood 
Avenue,  where  the  negroes  were  segregated.  He  saw 
a  good  business  chance,  but  he  saw,  too,  a  chance  for 
helpful  leadership  among  the  blacks.  He  was  ambi 
tious  to  play  an  elegant  part  in  the  race  drama.  He 
often  said  that  Booker  T.  Washington's  relegation  of 
the  negro  to  mere  manual  labor  was  wrong ;  the  Af ric 
imagination  was  fit  for  literature,  the  arts  and  politics. 

He  had  come  to  Walt  Kuhns's  conference  at  his  own 
request,  to  plead  for  the  inclusion  of  the  colored  work 
ers  in  the  Union.  Across  from  him  sat  Grover.  He 
was  not  of  the  caliber  of  the  others,  but  a  studious 
local  personage,  who  had  an  intellectual  interest  in 
labor  and  socialism. 

Walt  Kuhns  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  which  with 


170  IRON  CITY 

the  chairs  were  the  only  pieces  of  furniture  in  this 
rough  room  above  Willard's  saloon.  He  was  intense 
ly  conscious  of  the  power  represented  in  this  little 
group  of  people.  Mary  could  speak  for  the  Slavs, 
Austrians,  Italian  and  Greek  peoples  of  the  city ;  Mul- 
vaney  and  Daggett  for  the  Irish,  Welsh  and  English; 
and  Duke  for  the  negro. 

He,  as  leader,  was  not  unaware,  though,  of  the  ra 
cial  antipathies  current  at  that  moment.  It  was  Mary 
who  had  slipped  into  the  vacant  chair  beside  the  negro 
after  Grover,  Daggett  and  Mulvaney  had  passed  it  by. 
Daggett  sat  back,  silent  and  bored.  Between  even 
them — the  big  foreman  and  Kuhns,  the  leader — there 
were  repellent  forces  at  work. 

Duke  was  saying :  "Gentlemen,  eighty  per  cent  of 
my  blood  is  white,  fifteen  per  cent  Indian,  and  five 
black,  and  yet  I  am  to  be  discriminated  against  as  a 
negro.  Some  people  don't  like  Duke  because  he  speaks 
out,  but  I  believe  in  being  plain.  You  will  make  a 
mistake  if  you  don't  let  the  colored  man  in  the  union. 
He  has  come  to  Iron  City  and  has  come  to  stay." 

Daggett  sat  back,  his  surly  eyes  not  intent  upon  the 
negro,  but  upon  Walt  Kuhns,  as  though  to  forbid  his 
granting  Duke's  request.  Kuhns  treated  Duke  with 
courtesy,  and  promised  to  take  the  matter  up  with  the 
council  as  soon  as  it  was  formed.  With  that  the  negro 
bowed  himself  toward  the  door  with  a  good  deal  of  a 
flourish.  "The  war,  gentlemen,"  he  continued,  "has 
given  the  colored  people  a  chance,  and  they  have  come 
to  Iron  City  to  stay.  Don't  forget  that." 

"The  hell  we  won't,"  growled  Daggett  softly. 

Mulvaney,  to  cover  up  Daggett's  ill-nature,  began 
to  inquire  at  once  into  the  details  of  organization.  In 
stantly  Kuhns  was  besieged  with  questions:  "Who 


IRON  CITY  171 

was  going  to  be  shop-committee  man  ?  When  were  the 
street  meetings  to  start?  What  did  he  hear  from 
Boyne's  factory?  Was  he  in  touch  with  the  head 
council  ?" 

Mary  made  a  brief  report  of  her  activity  amorfg  the 
Italians  that  day.  Daggett  sat  in  silence,  sucking  on 
an  unlighted  cigar.  Kuhns's  strategy  was  to  secure 
secretly  the  allegiance  of  the  mechanics — the  higher 
grade  workmen — in  the  various  plants  and  then  when 
these  men  were  enlisted,  to  announce  openly  that 
chapters  were  to  be  formed  in  Iron  City.  Having 
won  the  skilled  labor,  he  expected  to  enlist  the  others 
with  ease  and  to  be  strong  enough  to  force  recognition 
of  the  union  principle.  He  counted  greatly  upon  the 
scarcity  of  all  kinds  of  labor  to  carry  the  campaign 
through.  A  newspaper  was  to  be  established  and  a 
trades  council ;  there  was  also  to  be  a  dynamic  execu 
tive  committee  unifying  all  the  working  classes. 

"I  don't  believe  you  can  do  it,"  put  in  Daggett. 
"The  time  hain't  right.  There  are  too  many  ignora 
muses  in  that  shop  to  join  the  unions,  honyocks  and 
niggers." 

"Shut  up,  Bill.  You  know  we  can,"  responded  Mul- 
vaney  quickly.  Kuhns  fastened  his  quiet  eyes  upon 
the  big  foreman. 

"Mr.  Daggett  does  not  believe  in  our  cause,  perhaps. 
If  not,  he  is  in  the  wrong  place.  We  want  only  be 
lievers  here,  men  willing  to  sacrifice." 

"Sure,  Bill's  all  right,"  Mulvaney  assured  him. 

"Of  course  I'm  with  you,"  Daggett  asserted,  "or  I 
wouldn't  be  here.  Do  you  realize  that  I  may  lose  my 
job  to-morrow  morning?" 

There  were  other  parleys;  then  Walt  spoke  quietly 
to  them  about  the  larger  aspects  of  their  cause.  He 


172  IRON  CITY 

was  a  prophet  by  nature,  and  he  had  the  gift  of  speak 
ing  sincerely  and  deeply  without  sentimentality.  He 
told  the  story  again  of  his  conversion  to  unionism,  re 
peated  the  words  of  his  master,  advised  moderation, 
patience,  and  above  all,  largeness  of  view.  How  Iron 
City,  with  its  closely  "in-bred"  control  of  industry, 
was  one  of  the  few  communities  of  importance  where 
union  labor  was  not  recognized.  Then  they  went 
home. 

Kuhns  lingered  at  the  table.  As  he  turned  his  head 
toward  the  dusty,  narrow  window,  he  could  see  the 
crowd  in  the  street  below — the  tide  of  life  running, 
even  here  in  this  backwater  of  the  world,  apparently 
aimlessly.  A  big  automobile — mark  of  power  and 
affluence — swept  by;  he  could  see  it  preempt  the 
thoroughfare;  the  smaller  machines  as  if  by  instinct 
gave  it  way.  It  stood  in  his  mind  for  the  facile,  mo 
bile  power  he  was  fighting.  How  strong  and  sure  it 
was!  It  daunted  him! 

He  felt  for  a  moment  the  staleness  of  living  that 
all  brave  men  feel  now  and  then  when  they  suddenly 
relax  their  hold  upon  the  engaging  task  of  their  whole 
life.  With  that  relaxation  comes  disillusionment,  the 
re-grouping  of  men  and  things  about  another  ideal. 
He  saw  Mary,  Duke,  Mulvaney,  Daggett  and  Grover, 
as  they  really  were — petty  souls — reaching  for  a 
greater  share  of  the  world's  things;  incapable  of  ris 
ing  above  the  immediate  needs  of  themselves  and  their 
class.  And  worse,  he  saw  himself  as  a  mere  senti 
mental  seeker  after  an  unattainable  end.  He  felt  tired 
and  beaten,  incapable  of  accomplishing  the  coalition 
of  the  alien  crowds  of  Iron  City.  Why  go  on !  Why 
give  one's  self  to  insult,  defeat  and  despair,  sacrific 
ing  family,  home  and  peace!  Let  the  world  drift  to 


IRON  CITY  173 

hell.  The  strong  were  too  strong,  and  would  have 
their  own  way  in  spite  of  him  and  his  kind.  God! 
What  a  nasty  world  it  was,  with  its  nuzzlers,  slaugh 
terers,  flatterers,  seducers  and  kings. 

Then  by  some  irrelevant  twist  of  mind  he  thought 
of  Cosmus,  and  the  thought  gave  him  comfort.  Cos- 
mus  was  fighting  the  battle  too,  there  among  the 
strong,  and  for  the  first  time  the  labor  leader  felt  as 
if  his  movement  were  at  last  being  recognized  and 
given  a  semi-official  endorsement. 

"Comer,"  he  murmured;  he  never  could  remember 
Cosmus's  name.  "Comer  is  all  right.  He  is  working 
there,  too." 

And  he  went  down  the  rickety  stairway,  past  the 
saloon  from  which  the  fumes  of  stale  beer  emerged, 
to  the  attic  room  at  the  Johnson  House,  strong  again. 

In  six  weeks  there  were  thirty-four  hundred  union 
men  in  Iron  City. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SPRING  came,  with  its  pagan  spirit  waking  the 
gypsy  in  the  blood.  It  is  as  if  it  furnished  anew 
the  wide  dingy  chamber  of  the  world  with  fresh 
scents,  dainty  chintz  of  flowers,  soft  green  coverlet 
and  sky-flung  windows,  and  said:  "Children,  here 
is  the  place  of  nuptials."  And  youth  always  enters 
with  sighs  and  kisses,  and  suddenly  finds  itself  in  new 
accord  with  nature.  All  its  veiled  mysteries — earth 
and  body,  night  and  stars,  desire  and  frustration,  cov 
etous  longings  and  killing  despairs,  seed  and  soil — 
stand  naked  and  revealed. 

From  the  moment  that  Raymond  and  Margaret  en 
tered  the  mysterious  world  whose  sesame  is  a  kiss, 
silence  entered.  As  they  drove  past  the  black  stacks 
of  Sill's  factory,  out  upon  an  unfrequented  road  to 
Pike  Lake — they  did  not  talk  much;  and  what  they 
said  was  fragmentary,  yet  charged  with  heavier  mean 
ings.  Margaret  lay  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  feeling 
the  heart  of  the  engine  beat  through  them  until  it 
seemed  at  times  as  if  they  were  one  mechanism.  That 
fancy  was  characteristic  of  her  in  this  new  world :  she 
suddenly  found  herself  playing  with  fantasy — moving 
in  a  land  of  shadows  and  illusion.  All  of  her  old 
gayety,  her  thoughtless  badinage,  seemed  deployed  in 
achieving  a  new  dignity  of  womanhood.  She  was 
happy.  Raymond  was  her  lover,  won  and  possessed. 
And  with  that  came  abandon — not  wantonness.  If 
one  could  have  looked  into  Margaret's  mind  and  seen 
the  image  of  herself  which  was  there,  one  probably 

174 


IRON  CITY  175 

would  have  seen  only  another  heroine,  like  those  who 
are  flashed  upon  the  screen  every  night  before  countless 
thousands.  She  was  true  to  her  ideal  and  standard. 
She  was  living  up  to  the  world  that  most  nearly  an 
swered  her  desire.  To  ride  along  the  dim  road,  pressed 
close  to  Raymond's  body,  seemed  quite  the  natural 
thing  to  her. 

"I'm  glad  you  don't  drive  fast,"  she  whispered. 

He  bent  over  her  tenderly.     His  arm  tightened. 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  "so  I  can " 

"Yes,  of  course,  that  too;  but  I  was  thinking  of  the 
accident  at  Twelve  Mile." 

"Boys  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  play  in  streets." 

"Sure  not.     But  I'm  glad  he  got  well." 

Somehow  their  secret  did  not  lose  its  potency. 
Through  that  they  began  anew  the  luxury  of  walking 
down  the  long  avenue  of  common  experiences. 

Pike  Lake,  which  they  reached  soon  after  sunset, 
was  an  unusual  stretch  of  water  for  the  Middle  West. 
Spring-fed,  crystal  clear,  it  lay  between  great  bluffs, 
like  a  mountain  pool.  No  one  could  suspect  that,  re 
ceding  from  this  water,  the  prairies  broke  away  in  un 
ending  monotony.  The  lake  was  a  glorious  geograph 
ical  blunder,  which  furnished  a  haven  for  the  prairie- 
fagged  inhabitants  of  Iron  City — and  also  for  Chicago 
millionaires.  Lining  the  east  shore  of  Pike  Lake  were 
imposing  estates,  with  pretentious  piles  of  masonry 
and  ornate  gardens.  All  private — all  shut  off  from 
the  gaze  of  the  vulgar.  But  Raymond  knew  just 
where  to  drive  to  get  forbidden  glimpses,  across  wide 
lawns,  at  awninged  mansions.  Such  views  gave  them 
a  thrill,  put  them  in  touch  with  the  gay  life  of  the 
metropolis,  which  they  both  craved.  The  banality  of 
middle-class  Iron  City  preyed  upon  them.  Although 


176  IRON  CITY 

R.  Sill  was  rich  enough  to  keep  up  such  an  establish 
ment,  he  had  no  desire  to  do  it.  He  loved  the  shop  and 
factory  too  much  to  dawdle  over  a  country  home. 
But  Raymond! 

"I  understand,  Mag,"  he  said,  "that  you  can  buy 
any  of  these  places  for  a  song." 

"You  can!" 

"Yes,  you  can.  You  see  they  were  built  by  the 
packers  and  those  people  long  ago,  and  the  younger 
set  don't  care  for  'em." 

"They  don't?  Those  lovely  places?"  Margaret 
was  incredulous. 

"I  don't  blame  'em;  take  Lake  Superior — it's  al 
ways  cool  up  there,  and  you  know  Pike  Lake  sure 
can  get  hot." 

"It  can,  can't  it?"  she  agreed. 

"But  what's  their  loss  is  our  gain.  I've  been  think 
ing  that  when  we  are  married,  we  might  take  one  of 
these  for  a  few  summers.  It  would  be  good  enough 
for  a  while."  Raymond  said  this  with  the  assumed 
dignity  of  manhood. 

"Oh,  Raymond!" 

They  had  spoken  often  of  marriage  lately;  they  had 
drifted  into  it,  first  in  jest,  then  in  reality.  It  some~ 
how  seemed  the  natural  thing — and,  perhaps,  the 
proper  thing.  But  it  meant  little.  They  made  no 
plans;  they  were  never  formal  in  vow  or  promise.  It 
was  part  of  the  drama.  To  Margaret,  marriage  meant 
scarcely  more  than  the  vision  of  an  "adorable  wed 
ding"  at  St.  Luke's.  To  Raymond,  it  meant  nothing 
more  explicit  perhaps,  but  something  more  concrete. 
It  thrilled  him  with  a  sense  of  power  and  ownership, 
and  inspired  a  vague  forward-reaching  ecstasy.  He 
looked  down  at  Margaret;  he  could  see  her  round 


IRON  CITY  177 

head,  sweet  profile,  and  tapering  figure,  and  he  was 
satisfied.  Margaret  was  a  beautiful  girl  and  Ray 
mond  loved  beauty. 

They  went  to  one  of  the  smaller  hotels — the  Yale 
Hostelry,  to  which  Raymond  had  telephoned  ahead 
for  reservations.  As  they  entered,  Margaret  experi 
enced  as  always  the  stir  of  delight  at  feeling  admiring 
eyes  upon  her.  She  walked  boldly  up  to  the  desk  with 
Raymond,  and  stood  quietly  waiting  while  he  got  the 
tickets.  She  preferred  that  course  to  being  hidden 
away  in  the  "Ladies'  Parlor."  Margaret  never  lost 
her  poise.  She  seemed  made  to  inhabit  just  this  en 
vironment.  She  heard  the  clerk  say: 

"Oh,  yes— Mr.  Sill?" 

"I  telephoned  at  ten  from  Iron  City,"  Raymond  ex 
plained. 

"Let's  see,"  the  clerk  answered  as  he  ran  through 
the  list.  "How  many,  just  you — and — wife?" 

Without  hesitation,  Raymond  replied,  "Yes,  two.'" 

Margaret's  heart  beat  fearfully!  How  sweet  and 
strange  it  sounded.  But  outwardly  she  never  flicked 
an  eye.  There  she  stood  in  her  long  blue  motor-coat, 
like  incarnate  ice. 

"Did  you  hear  what  he  said  ?"  whispered  Raymond. 

"Yes,  and  you  didn't  correct  him,  naughty  boy." 

"I  didn't  acknowledge  it,  did  I  ?" 

They  laughed  joyously.  At  the  table,  Raymond 
would  not  let  Margaret  forget.  He  liked  to  see  her 
blush. 

"Maggie." 

She  did  not  take  her  eyes  off  the  soup. 

"Oh,  Maggie." 

"What  is  it,  sir?"  she  answered,  still  refusing  to 
meet  his  gaze. 

'You  are  my  wife,  aren't  you?" 


178  IRON  CITY 

She  glanced  up — aflutter  at  what  she  saw  in  his  face. 

"You  hungry  man !    Eat  your  fish." 

An  inexplicable  bond  was  laid  between  them  in  that 
moment.  In  silence  they  spoke  to  each  other  some 
thing  never  uttered  before. 

As  Margaret  whispered  to  him  later,  as  they 
wheeled  slowly  home,  in  the  dark,  "It  was  just  as 
if  we  were  married,  dear." 

"Married?" 

Somehow  the  word  from  her  frightened  Raymond 
now. 

"We  can't  be,  you  know,  until  after  I  return  from 
France !" 

"You'll  not  go  to  France." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will.     I'm  serious." 

"No,  you  won't." 

"Why?" 

She  reached  a  tender  arm  around  his  neck,  pulled 
his  ear  down  to  her  lips  and  whispered : 

"Because  you're  so  spoony,  you  couldn't." 

They  were  emerging  from  a  deep  wood,  and  sud 
denly  turning  a  corner,  they  found  themselves  looking 
across  leagues  of  unbroken  prairie  lands.  A  new 
moon  swam  up  in  the  filmy  sky,  over  which  fleecy 
clouds  sailed.  Directly  before  them  a  daisy  field 
trembled  in  the  sweet  light.  A  breeze  sprang  up,  like 
a  voice,  and  thrilled  them.  Raymond  drew  up  the 
car  to  the  side  of  the  road.  They  climbed  out  and 
stood,  their  arms  around  each  other,  looking  into  the 
face  of  nature's  mystery.  The  world  suddenly  seemed 
alive.  It  flowed  through  them,  and  it  crushed  their 
bodies  together  in  passionate  embrace.  They  crossed 
the  fence,  Raymond  lifting  Margaret  over.  Through 
the  mystic  light  they  walked,  among  the  daisies,  limb 


IRON  CITY  179 

to  limb.  As  Margaret  stooped  to  pick  a  flower,  the 
moon  slipped  beneath  a  cloud,  a  breeze  sprang  up,  a 
hot  lush  breeze  from  the  south,  that  seemed  to  burn 
them. 

"Why,  it's  like  summer,"  she  murmured. 

Raymond  did  not  hear.  He  swayed  toward  her, 
groping,  their  lips  met.  He  lifted  her  in  his  arms, 
she  pressed  close  to  him,  then  suddenly  they  turned 
and  walked  fast  to  the  machine.  The  engine  started, 
he  threw  open  the  throttle,  and  they  dashed  on  for 
minutes  at  full  speed — as  if  fleeing  from  something 
— which,  alas,  they  carried  with  them. 

That  event  in  the  daisy  field  opened  door  after  door 
into  a  more  alluring,  more  mysterious  world.  Mar 
garet  said: 

"What  did  you  run  away  for?" 

"I  won't — the  next  time." 

And  so  they  confidently  stepped  on  further  into  the 
world  of  mystery  and  danger. 

It  must  have  been  ten-thirty  when  the  lovers  reached 
town.  Stillness  had  already  settled  over  Iron  City, 
and  the  early  evening  fire  had  gone  out  of  the  factory 
pipes.  In  the  calm  they  heard  the  clinkle  and  clang 
of  forge  and  derrick,  blended  into  nocturnal  music. 
They  were  vividly  alive — these  two — to  sound  and 
color  and  odor.  The  senses,  dilated  with  the  turbulent 
breath  of  desire,  drank  in  the  night's  charm.  They 
seemed  to  belong  to  the  night — the  machine  slipping 
along  in  the  dark,  carrying  limp  bodies  tortured  by 
tempestuous  hearts.  Hurrying  through  still  streets, 
they  yearned  to  each  other,  loath  to  go  in. 

At  last  Margaret  remembered  that  her  father  and 
mother  had  gone  to  one  of  their  few  parties  at  the 
Country  Club. 


i8o  IRON  CITY 

"If  that's  the  case,"  Raymond  suggested,  "let's  drive 
the  old  boat  to  our  garage,  and  walk  home." 

"Then  the  neighbors  won't  know,"  she  replied. 

Somehow  a  sense  of  guilt  was  ushered  in — guilt 
that  was  pleasurable.  In  the  garage,  they  stood  for 
a  moment,  their  arms  about  each  other ;  then  they  went 
hand  in  hand  through  the  Sill  garden,  careful  to  step 
only  on  grass.  They  took  the  long  way  to  the  Mor 
ton  house,  and  when  they  reached  there,  they  sat  upon 
the  porch  in  the  heavy  shadow  of  the  oaks.  Some 
thing  would  not  let  them  go — the  world  of  mystery 
shut  down  over  them,  like  the  night,  its  currents  sen 
sitizing  their  bodies  to  every  touch  and  sound  and 
breath.  How  beautiful  everything  was! 

"I  didn't  know  an  arc  light  could  look  like  that," 
Margaret  whispered. 

"Nor  I." 

They  heard  the  clock  in  the  college  tower  strike 
eleven.  Somehow  the  experience  on  the  lonely  road, 
long  before,  with  John  Cosmus,  flashed  through  Mar 
garet's  mind.  She  leaned  her  head  against  Raymond's 
shoulder.  How  far  away  college  seemed!  That 
world  of  books,  classes  and  parties  had  retreated  into 
obscurity;  the  world  of  mystery  was  the  only  reality 
now. 

The  clock  recalled  Raymond  to  duty.  He  must  go. 
Yes,  he  must  go.  It  was  eleven-thirty  before  he  stood 
up  to  depart,  but  she  pulled  him  down  beside  her  again, 
as  if  to  keep  her  warm,  whispering: 

"Father  and  Mother  are  not  home  yet.     Stay." 

He  obeyed,  until  the  clock  again  intruded.  Then 
he  arose  quickly,  said  good-night,  went  down  the  path 
without  a  word,  and  disappeared  in  the  shadow.  Was 
he  gone  ?  No,  he  must  not  be  gone ! 


IRON  CITY  181 

Margaret  stood  tremblingly  on  the  porch,  every 
sense  expanded,  listening.  Was  he  gone?  Why  had 
he  gone?  There  came  to  her  as  she  stood  there,  her 
wild  young  heart  yearning,  some  knowledge  of  the 
fragility  of  pleasure  and  the  brittleness  of  life  and 
beauty.  And  she  sighed. 

"Maggie!"  She  turned.  There  was  Raymond  at 
the  other  end  of  the  porch,  holding  out  his  arms  to 
her. 

"Dearest." 

"I  couldn't  go." 

"I'm  so  glad." 

"Take  me  for  a  walk,"  she  whispered. 

"Oh!" 

With  their  arms  around  each  other,  they  went  down 
the  shadowy  street,  their  senses  dulled  to  every  sight 
and  sound,  save  to  each  other's  body. 

It  was  a  mad  walk ;  they  knew  not  where  they  went. 
They  only  knew  they  had  to  be  together.  Through 
the  spring  night,  avoiding  zones  of  glare,  and  any 
late  pedestrians,  they  stumbled  on  into  the  world  of 
mystery.  In  time  the  moon  went  out,  and  a  wind 
sprang  up,  with  rain  in  it,  and  suddenly  all  the  lamps 
winked  out. 

"One  o'clock." 

"Where  are  we?" 

"You're  hurting  me." 

They  looked  around  in  amazement.  Big  drops  of 
rain  began  to  fall  and  the  wind  was  fitful  and  cold. 
Raymond's  arm  tightened  about  her  waist.  They 
got  their  bearings. 

"Three  blocks  from  home." 

"Let's  not  go  in." 

"I  could  go  on  forever." 


182  IRON  CITY 

"You  little  thing." 

They  had  been  walking  in  a  circle.  They  quickened 
their  steps — and  then  Margaret  saw  dimly  as  through 
tears  that  they  were  not  turning  into  her  yard,  into 
her  house,  but  were  mounting  the  steps  of  the  new  St 
Luke's.  Could  she  hesitate?  There  beat  in  upon  her 
brain  the  image  of  the  wedding  party — awnings 
decked  with  flowers,  the  big  line  of  limousines  glisten 
ing,  the  bridal  procession,  music,  flowers,  the  bride. 
She  went  up  the  steps.  She  saw  the  night  sky,  wild 
and  fitful,  through  the  unglassed  windows ;  her  heart 
beat  frantically,  but  she  went  in ;  she  went  up  the  aisle. 
Her  dress  caught  on  something;  she  pulled  it  loose. 
She  could  feel  Raymond  breathing  deep  beside  her. 
The  rain  fell. 

By  some  stroke  of  irony,  by  some  strange  crossing 
of  associations,  the  last  conscious  idea  which  came  to 
Margaret,  to  whom  books  meant  nothing,  was  the 
story,  read  long  ago,  of  an  ill-fated  queen,  chanted 
by  a  Roman  poet: 

"The  queen  and  prince  as  love  or  fortune  guides, 
One  common  cavern  in  her  bosom  hides, 
Then  first  the  trembling  earth  the  signal  gave, 
And  flashing  fires  enlighten  all  the  cave ; 
Hell  from  below  and  Juno  from  above, 
And  howling  imps  were  conscious  of  their  love. 
From  this  ill-omened  hour  in  time  arose 
Debate  and  death  and  all  succeeding  woes." 

At  the  altar.  Raymond  and  Margaret  sank  down 
together  into  a  sea  of  ecstasy. 

Arrived  home,  the  Mortons  sat  for  a  moment  in  the 
parlor  wondering  if  Margaret  had  preceded  them. 
They  did  not  see  her  "things"  hanging  in  the  hall. 


IRON  CITY  183 

"I  bet  she  is,  Mother,"  said  Carl,  and  mounted  the 
stairs  to  peep  into  Margaret's  room.  His  tender  hand, 
fumbling  on  the  bed,  found  it  smooth  and  soft. 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  he  came  down  stairs. 

"Yes,  she  is  in,  Mother.  You  go  to  bed.  I  shall 
be  up  in  a  minute.  I  want  to  look  over  these  papers 
of  Sill's." 

Mrs.  Morton  took  him  at  his  word,  and  went  to  bed. 
Carl  sat  down  in  the  Morris  chair,  flung  a  paper 
over  the  lamp  to  dim  it,  and  waited.  His  mind  ran 
on  education,  training — "home-training,"  he  called  it 
— and  he  wondered  if  Margaret  were  really  getting 
what  she  ought  to  get.  He  was  troubled — he  did  not 
understand  the  generation  in  which  he  found  himself, 
and  he  still  clung  passionately  to  his  three  broad 
axioms  of  education :  "Serve  God ;  mind  your  man 
ners  ;  respect  your  betters."  So  he  sat.  He  fell  asleep, 
and  when  he  awoke  the  day  was  just  about  to  dawn. 
He  stooped  and  removed  his  shoes,  and  went  softly 
to  the  door,  opening  the  screen.  The  morning  was 
fresh  and  sweet;  birds  were  beginning  to  awake  and 
to  tinkle  in  the  trees.  He  went  out.  In  the  porch- 
swing  his  little  daughter  Margaret  lay  asleep,  her  arm 
tucked  under  her  pretty  head,  as  he  had  seen  her  sleep 
ever  since  she  was  the  tiniest  child.  She  stirred. 

"Sh,"  he  said,  putting  his  finger  on  lip. 

She  rubbed  her  eyes  and  sat  up. 

"I  lay  down  here,  Father,  because  I  couldn't  get  in. 
I  didn't  want  to  wake  you." 

"Go  up  to  your  room  softly.    Don't  wake  Mother." 

Together  they  tiptoed  up  the  stairs,  neither  to  sleep. 
Margaret  lay  watching  the  sunlight  slowly  creep  into 
the  room.  She  tossed  back  and  forth  until  her  brown 
hair  was  a  tangle  of  curls.  She  got  up,  drew  up  a 


184  IRON  CITY 

blind,  and  looked  out.     St.  Luke's  glistened  in  the 
sun. 

"Oh!  my  wedding!"  she  thought,  passing  her  hand 
weakly  across  her  mouth,  as  persons  often  do  who  are 
confused  in  thinking. 

Was  everything  quite  right  after  all?  There  was  a 
sickening  sense  of  loss — of  missing  something,  and 
alas!  of  having  nothing  to  which  she  could  look  for 
ward.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  it  were  the  end  of  life's 
perpetual  picnic. 

She  crossed  the  room  and  sank  heavily  on  the  bed, 
her  hot  head  buried  in  her  arms. 

Carl's  mind,  as  he  lay  stiffly  beside  his  wife,  still 
beat  feverishly  on  the  problem  of  Margaret's  educa 
tion.  Shouldn't  the  movies  be  stopped?  Perhaps 
Margaret  might  do  better  at  a  girls'  school  in  the  East? 
Had  Margaret  been  asleep,  he  questioned  ?  Was  Mar 
garet  honest?  Shame  on  you,  Carl  Morton,  for  ques 
tioning  her.  And  Raymond  Sill? 

Yes,  Raymond  Sill.  How  many  moralists  less  aus 
tere  than  Carl  Morton  would  have  extenuated  Ray 
mond  Sill?  Yet  after  all,  Raymond,  by  the  uncon 
scious  gleaning  of  the  mind,  had  only  caught  the 
spirit  of  his  age.  The  predatory  philosophy  of  his 
father  and  his  father's  world  had  unconsciously  be 
come  his  own.  To  take  what  you  want  where  you 
find  it,  seemed  simple  enough,  washed  around  as  Ray 
mond  was  by  such  ideas.  Wasn't  Margaret  beautiful, 
and  didn't  Raymond  love  beauty? 

Perhaps,  too,  by  the  way  of  chance,  Margaret,  de 
flecting  her  father's  teaching  through  her  own  per 
sonality,  was  merely  living  in  her  own  way  the  axiom : 
"Respect  your  betters."  At  any  rate,  there  were  at 
least  two  troubled  hearts  in  Iron  City  that  morning. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

TiyTARGARET  was  surprised,  when  she  awoke, 
•I*  A  soon  after  noon,  on  the  day  after  the  ride  to 
Pike  Lake,  that  she  was  charged  with  such  a  sense  of 
well-being.  The  world  was  no  different.  That  sense 
of  loss,  which  she  had  experienced  a  few  hours  before, 
was  gone.  Life  stretched  before  her  with  the  same  old 
possibilities  of  sensation.  The  same?  With  added 
zest  and  danger.  And  with  added  meaning?  Hardly. 
To  Margaret,  the  meaning  of  life  was  unimportant. 
She  did  not  discern  that  meaning  might  include  sen 
sation.  There  was  her  room,  sweet  and  clean,  and 
the  cool,  white  bath-room,  and  her  lovely  dresses,  and 
the  soft,  white  bed,  just  the  same.  Mother  did  not 
know,  and  Father !  Father  had  been  so  good  and  kind 
last  night;  he  always  was.  A  throb  of  something  like 
remorse  made  her  start.  No,  Father  would  be  proud 
and  happy  that  the  son  of  R.  Sill  loved  her.  Dear 
Dad! 

How  good  it  was  to  bathe,  and  don  fresh  linen !  It 
never  had  felt  cleaner!  How  good  it  was  to  come 
down  into  a  darkened  parlor,  where  it  was  still  and 
cool,  and  to  find  Mother  ready  with  a  kiss,  and  not  a 
sign  of  rebuke.  How  good  it  was  to  find  a  bite  to 
eat  in  the  pantry!  The  world  was  no  different,  after 
all. 

"Has  Raymond  called  up?" 

"No." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

185 


i86  IRON  CITY 

"The  phone  hasn't  rung  this  afternoon,  Maggie." 

Perhaps  he  was  sick!  She  trembled  at  the  possi-* 
bility !  She  put  by  every  other  thought.  He  must  be 
sick  or  he  would  have  called.  He  had  to  be  sick. 

The  afternoon  dragged  by.  She  tried  to  read  a 
magazine;  she  forced  herself  to  be  unusually  amiable 
to  her  mother.  Poor  Mother,  how  pale  she  looked. 

Some  girl  friends  came  in  and  there  were  the  usual 
giggles,  confidences  and  gossip.  They  played  and 
danced  and  sipped  lemonade.  One  of  them  who  knew 
her  better  than  the  others  demanded  suddenly,  "Is 
Ray  going  to  France,  Mag?" 

Margaret  did  not  reply  at  once.  Somehow  she  did 
not  feel  quite  so  confident  as  she  had  last  night  that 
he  would  not  go.  She  hesitated,  until  another  girl 
put  in: 

"Don't  break  your  neck  to  answer,  kid;  when  is  it 
comin'  off?" 

"What?" 

"I  bid  for  maid  of  honor,  Mag." 

Laughter  followed.  There  was  interchange  of  ban 
ter,  and  more  confidences.  Margaret  showed  them 
some  "fancy  work"  she  was  doing. 

"You  ought  to  be  knitting  for  the  soldiers,"  one  said 
significantly.  There  was  a  shout  of  merriment. 

When  they  left,  Margaret  was  glad.  They  seemed 
so  noisy  somehow — and  Ray  might  call  up  at  any 
time. 

Ray  did  not  call  before  supper.  The  three  Mortons 
sat  at  the  table  pretty  much  in  silence.  Margaret 
thought  that  her  father  must  be  worried  about  the 
men  at  the  plant.  She  tried  to  be  amiable.  She  talked 
well,  telling  them  about  Pike  Lake,  and  related  many 
amusing  incidents,  mostly  fabricated;  but  pretense  did 


IRON  CITY  187 

not  bring  back  old  times.  If  her  father  only  would 
not  be  so  silent! 

They  pushed  back  the  chairs,  left  the  dishes  stand 
ing,  and  went  to  work  in  the  garden.  Presently  Mar 
garet  slipped  off,  went  into  the  house,  to  the  telephone, 
and  called  the  Sill  residence. 

"Is  Raymond  there  ?" 

The  maid  found  Raymond  in  his  mother's  room. 
They  were  laughing  over  the  latest  volume  of  Pro 
fessor  Leacock.  Previously  Patience  Sill  had  re 
opened  the  question  of  his  going  to  Massachusetts  for 
the  summer. 

"When  you  come  back,  Raymond  son,  I  promise  to 
have  Father  get  you  the  plane." 

The  proposition  did  not  seem  so  bad. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  very  badly?"  he  asked. 
"I'll  think  it  over,  Mother." 

"The  phone,  Mr.  Raymond,"  the  maid  announced. 

"For  me?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  went  out,  closing  the  door  softly  behind  him. 
At  the  telephone  a  voice  said : 

"Ray,  this  is  Margaret." 

There  was  a  pause  of  expectancy. 

"Well?" 

"Aren't  you  coming  up?" 

"Why,  Mag,  I  just  promised  Steve  and  Hazel  Tyler 
that  I'd  go  to  the  Green  Jewel  with  them." 

"But,  Ray." 

"I'll  see  you  soon,  dear." 

What  business  had  she  to  cry  like  that?  What  bus 
iness  had  she  to  call  him  up  anyhow?  Couldn't  he 
have  one  evening  alone?  He  had  been  awfully  good 
to  go  down  to  the  Mortons'  as  much  as  he  had  in  the 


i88  IRON  CITY 

past  three  months.  He  had  spoiled  her,  that's  what 
he  had,  and  she  didn't  appreciate  it. 

Raymond  was  all  resentment.  It  seemed  a  pretty 
affair  that  Margaret  should  have  shown  such  feeling 
over  just  one  evening  at  home.  With  him  there  was 
not  the  dawn  of  obligation.  Margaret,  no  doubt,  could 
look  out  for  herself.  She  always  had. 

When  he  returned  to  his  mother's  room,  he  stood 
for  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  to  light  a  cigarette. 
Then  he  said: 

"Mother,  I  guess  I'll  take  you  up  on  that  proposi 
tion,  after  all." 

Her  face  lighted  up. 

"I  knew  you'd  come  to  your  senses,  Raymond  son." 

When  R.  Sill  came  home  an  hour  later  than  usual, 
Mrs.  Sill  called  him  into  her  room. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  said  roughly. 

She  gave  Raymond  a  meaningful  look,  and  said 
something  about  her  last  painting;  she  did  not  want 
to  approach  R.  Sill  when  he  was  in  this  mood. 

"What's  wrong,  Father?"  asked  Patience  Sill. 

R.  Sill  had  something  he  wanted  to  say  to  Ray 
mond. 

"Let's  go  out  and  look  over  the  Stutz  together,"  he 
said  to  his  son,  more  as  a  command  than  a  request. 
Then  added,  "We'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  Mother." 

Raymond's  first  thought  was,  "I  wonder  what's 
eating  the  Big  Chief  now?" 

Something  had  disturbed  R.  Sill  that  afternoon. 
Morton  had  come  to  him  shortly  before  the  hour  to 
leave  the  office,  with  a  surprising  bit  of  news;  Mor 
ton  was  white  when  he  announced  it. 

"I  have  just  learned  that  this  whole  town  has  been 
unionized,  that  a  labor  sheet  called  The  Labor  De- 


IRON  CITY  189 

fense'  will  appear  to-morrow  for  the  first  time,  an 
nouncing  the  organization  of  the  Iron  City  Trades 
Council,  which  is  only  a  union  of  unions — and  a  mass 
meeting  to  be  held  in  the  Opera  House  Tuesday." 

R.  Sill's  first  impulse  was  to  be  angry,  to  strike  out 
and  wound  something,  some  one,  for  allowing  this 
terrible  menace  to  exist.  But  he  restrained  himself. 
He  made  it  a  rule  never  to  show  fear  or  anger  before 
subordinates.  True  to  his  type,  he  surrounded  him 
self  with  something  of  the  pomp  and  show  of  kings. 

"Where  did  you  get  this?" 

"From  Daggett." 

"You  know  Daggett  likes  his  little  lie!" 

"This  is  straight.  He  belongs  to  the  Machinists' 
Union  himself!  Here's  the  list." 

Morton  handed  a  memorandum  to  his  chief. 

"Nearly  six  hundred  of  ours  affected!"  Sill  ex 
claimed. 

"Mostly  machinists,"  Morton  said  significantly. 

Sill  read: 

"Team  drivers   36 

Molders    40 

Painters   100 

Blacksmiths    47 

Pattern-makers    32 

Machinists 312 

Core-makers   32 


599 

Morton  was  plainly  worried. 

"We  simply  can't  fire  that  bunch,"  he  said.     "It's 
all  our  skilled  labor." 

R.  Sill  fixed  his  hard  eyes  on  his  foreman,  dropped 


190  IRON  CITY 

his  chin  on  his  chest.  He  spoke  in  the  metallic  tones 
of  angry  hate. 

"Don't  say  'can't',  Morton.  I  don't  like  it.  We 
will  fire  every  one  of  them."  He  stood  up  proudly. 
"You  know,  my  father  died  a  poor  man.  He  threw 
a  million  dollars  away  on  education.  I'll  be  willing 
to  spend  every  cent  I've  got  in  breaking  them.  They 
can't  run  me.  It's  a  cause,  Morton,  that's  what  it  is !" 

Morton  had  never  seen  his  chief  quite  so  moved,  and 
he  gazed  at  him  in  admiration.  R.  Sill  was  magnifi 
cent.  Sill  himself  felt  that  he  somehow  had  distin* 
guished  himself ;  he  had  struck  just  the  right  note. 

"Send  Daggett  in!"  And,  being  pleased  with  him 
self,  he  added,  "And,  Morton,  don't  you  worry!" 

Morton,  thus  dismissed,  went  out  satisfied. 

In  five  minutes  Daggett  came  in,  smiling  and  genial. 

"Daggett,"  said  R.  Sill  coolly,  "how  did  it  happen 
that  you  were  so  late  in  putting  us  next  to  this  union 
business?" 

"I  wasn't  late,  Mr.  Sill.    Kuhns " 

"It's  Kuhns,  is  it?" 

"He's  been  in  town  but  a  few  weeks." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Daggett  had  just  been  able 
to  shake  himself  free  from  fear  of  Jerry  Mulvaney; 
it  had  been  a  struggle  between  fear  and  cupidity — 
cupidity  had  won. 

"All  right,  Daggett!  I  guess  that  won't  make  any 
difference.  Keep  us  in  touch,  will  you?" 

"Sure.  I  believe,  Mr.  Sill,"  returned  the  big  man 
obsequiously,  "that  those  fellows  have  no  right  to 
strike  when  you've  been  treatin'  'em  so  well.  I  don't 
know  any  plant  where  the  men  get  so  much  for  their 
diggin's." 

Sill  smiled. 


IRON  CITY  191 

"You  see,  Daggett,  not  all  of  them  are  so  sensible 
as  you." 

"So  long,  Mr.  Sill." 

"Good  afternoon." 

Creature  of  habit,  inspired  by  a  sense  of  leadership, 
Sill  had  merely  acted  in  his  usual  decisive  fashion.  In 
reality,  he  was  not  so  confident  or  so  sure  as  he  ap 
peared.  Instinctive  fear  of  the  crowd,  so  prevalent  in 
his  type,  stirred  him  to  uneasiness.  A  massed  force 
of  six  hundred  men  was  different  from  the  impact  of 
isolated  workers  and  agitators.  And  Sill  felt  that 
there  was  something  in  the  situation  that  was  new; 
this  perception  of  difference  worried  him  most  of  all; 
the  habit-mind,  ruled  by  custom,  cannot  brook  change. 
Somehow  the  formation  of  six  hundred  men  into  an 
organization  in  six  weeks  indicated  to  him  a  mysteri 
ous  madness  in  men,  which  he  connected  dimly  with 
the  war.  And  to  Sill,  though  it  was  doubling  his 
wealth,  the  war  stood  as  the  great  unexplained.  Sill 
was  afraid — as  men  always  are  of  that  which  they 
cannot  understand. 

He  sat  crumpled  in  his  chair — feeling  tired  and 
misused.  He  felt  resentment  toward  Morton,  Dag 
gett,  Kuhns — and  toward  Iron  City.  It  was  the  in 
gratitude  of  men  that  allowed  them  to  unionize  at  this 
evil  time.  They  were  unappreciative  and  unpatriotic. 

He  nestled  there,  a  lonely  man,  old  before  his  time. 
The  stenographer  in  the  outer  office  came  and  tapped 
on  the  door,  but  he  did  not  hear.  The  late  afternoon 
sunlight  fell  through  the  windows,  and  the  five  o'clock 
whistle  blew  before  R.  Sill  stirred  himself. 

Then  all  his  resentment,  all  his  weariness,  the  defec 
tion  of  the  men,  the  madness  of  the  generation,  cen 
tered  themselves  in  Raymond.  Raymond  was  the 


J92  IRON  CITY 

weak  point  in  his  defense.  If  he  only  were  a  proper 
son,  like  Steve  Tyler;  if  he  only  were  ready  to  meet 
these  new  forces,  which  R.  Sill  did  not  understand. 
He  groaned  in  self-pity  and  humiliation.  Raymond 
was  a  failure. 

It  was  this  mood  which  R.  Sill  brought  home  with 
him  into  the  peaceful  sitting  room  of  Patience  Sill, 
and  which  he  carried  out  into  the  garage,  lest  his  wife 
should  see. 

When  father  and  son  had  reached  the  privacy  of 
the  garage  R.  Sill  said  without  preliminary: 

"Ray,  I  want  you  to  stop  all  this  nonsense  about 
going  to  Massachusets,  this  running  round  with  the 
Morton  girl,  and  this  folly  of  college — and  come  into 
the  business  with  me." 

"But,  Dad,  I  don't  want  business " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  want.  It's  time  that  you 
tied  yourself  to  something." 

Raymond,  quickly  detecting  a  new  spirit  in  his  par 
ent,  and  realizing  that  his  mother  was  not  near  to 
abet  him,  looked  around  helplessly. 

"I  suppose  I'll  become  treasurer,  or  something?" 
he  added. 

"No.    You  go  into  the  Efficiency  Department." 

"But,  Dad,  Mr.  Boyne  made  Al  treasurer  right  off 
over  at  the  Iron  Works." 

"I'm  not  Boyne — and,  what's  more,  you're  not  Al. 
You'll  go  where  I  put  you." 

Raymond,  seeing  that  he  was  routed,  fell  back  upon 
Fabian  tactics,  often  employed.  He  had  learned  that 
if  he  did  not  resist  his  father,  he  gave  a  chance  for 
the  despotic  in  R.  Sill  to  subside  and  a  chance  for  the 
parental  to  assert  itself.  At  any  rate,  delay  would 
give  him  time  to  see  his  mother.  So  he  said  meekly : 


IRON  CITY  193 

"All  right,  Father.  I  suppose  you  need  me — the 
whole  town  is  buzzing  about  that  Walt  Kuhns's  new. 
gang." 

Sill  reacted  at  once  as  Raymond  supposed. 

"That's  sensible;  now  you  go  in  the  house  and  tell 
Mother." 

R.  Sill  felt  better  after  this  conference;  he  was 
handling  the  new  situation,  and  Raymond  no  doubt 
would  turn  out  to  be  a  Sill  after  all. 

That  night,  though,  he  did  not  find  sleep  readily; 
darkness  magnified  his  fears,  and  getting  up,  he 
knocked  softly  at  Patience  Sill's  door. 

"Is  that  you,  Ray?" 

Her  answer  sent  a  pang  through  Sill. 

"No,  it's  me— Father." 

"Come  in.     What's  wrong?"     She  was  anxious. 

He  came  over  and  sat  down  upon  her  bed. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "I've  been  thinking  that  per 
haps  I  was  a  little  hard  on  Raymond  this  evening.  You 
can  tell  him  to-morrow  that  he  can  have  the  plane." 

"I  knew  you  would,  Father." 

"But  he  ought  to  tie  to  something." 

"He's  only  a  boy  yet." 

"But  I  don't  like  a  floater,  Patience." 

"What?" 

"Down  at  the  mill,  the  workman's  a  floater  when 
he  don't  stay  at  a  job  for  any  length  of  time.  He 
floats  from  one  factory  to  another;  he's  no  good — he 
never  ties  to  an  employer." 

"Ray's  not  like  that." 

R.  Sill  answered  sadly.  "I'm  afraid  sometimes  he 
is." 

Whatever  R.  Sill's  faults  were,  his  great  virtue  was 
loyalty.  He  was  intensely  loyal.  To  be  sure,  loyalty 


194  IRON  CITY 

to  his  country  merely  meant  loyalty  to  his  class,  to 
business — still  he  was  primarily  loyal — vicariously 
loyal.  He  would  suffer  for  a  cause — and  suffer  long. 

Patience  Sill  stroked  his  hand. 

"Don't  worry,  Father." 

Sill  went  out  and  closed  the  door.  That  night  he 
lay  awake  for  hours  suffering  as  only  a  disillusioned 
parent  can  suffer.  Was  he  right?  Was  Raymond 
without  loyalty? 

It  would  seem  that  he  and  Margaret  Morton  had 
discovered  the  same  fact  about  Raymond  on  the  same 
day. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  mass  meeting  at  Johnson's  Opera  House,  un 
der  the  auspices  of  the  Iron  City  Trades  Union, 
brought  but  one  question  to  John  Cosmus — the  same 
question  he  had  been  asking  himself  for  weeks:  What 
of  the  college?  He  had  become  fully  aware  of  the 
inert  mass  of  sentiment  that  lay  within  the  college 
circle,  reflected  as  it  was  by  the  unprecedented  action 
of  Samuel  Curtis,  a  person  only  remotely  connected 
with  the  college,  in  ejecting  Cosmus  himself  from  his 
house,  and  yet  he  could  not  believe  that  thinking  men 
would  withdraw  themselves  from  an  event  as  moving 
as  the  unionization  of  Iron  City's  workers.  If  noth 
ing  more,  it  was  dramatic — a  flaming  bit  of  contem 
poraneous  history. 

Besides  himself,  there  had  been  just  three  members 
of  the  college  community  present  at  the  meeting,  Pro 
fessor  James  and  two  students,  Jenkins  and  Weaver. 

Cosmus  was  going  home  pondering  on  this  indif 
ference  when  he  was  attracted  by  a  crowd  of  boys 
congregating  at  the  entrance  of  an  alley.  The  fitful 
light  from  the  arc  across  the  street  was  bright  enough 
to  reveal  a  man  lying  prostrate  in  the  mud.  Drunk  or 
sick?  As  Cosmus  came  nearer,  he  saw  that  the  boys 
must  have  decided  that  the  man  was  drunk.  Moved 
as  boys  are  by  an  instinct  to  mutilate  a  personality 
already  desecrated  by  drink,  they  were  making  sport 
of  him.  For  them  it  was  amusing  to  throw  pebbles 
and  sticks  at  the  heavy  form,  and  at  the  same  time  to 

195 


196  IRON  CITY 

speculate  whether  the  still  figure  moved  a  finger,  or 
perceptibly  stirred. 

"There!     His  foot  shook." 

"No,  it  didn't." 

"It  did,  too !    I  saw  it." 

"Say,  fellows,  is  he  breathin'?" 

"Drunks  never  do." 

When  Cosmus  came  up,  one  boy,  bolder  than  the 
rest,  had  lifted  the  leg  of  the  sleeper,  much  as  a  black 
smith  does  for  a  horse  he  is  shoeing,  and  was  pound 
ing  vigorously  on  the  sole  of  the  shoe.  The  man 
groaned,  and  laughing,  the  boy  dropped  the  lifeless 
limb.  Cosmus  saw  that  the  foot  was  small,  and  en 
cased  in  good  shoes.  There  was  something,  too,  fa 
miliar  in  the  whole  figure,  as  it  lay  stretched  comfort 
ably  there  in  the  shadow.  Cosmus  pushed  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  and  turned  the  man  over.  He 
gave  off  an  odor  of  brandy.  He  lifted  the  face  into 
the  light.  What  he  saw  startled  him.  It  was  Ezra 
Kimbark. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  had  frightened  the  boys  away, 
sent  the  oldest  after  a  cab,  and  had  driven  to  the  side 
entrance  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  Inside  Cosmus  explained 
the  case  to  the  secretary,  and  had  Kimbark  helped  to 
his  room. 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  limp  figure, 
sprawled  heavily  on  the  bed,  the  strangely  gnarled 
face,  the  dark  rings  under  the  myopic  eyes,  the  oozy 
lips,  the  degradation  of  the  whole  form  in  a  kind  of 
brutish  impotence.  As  best  he  could  Cosmus  loos 
ened  the  soggy  shoes  and  socks,  damp  coat  and  waist 
coat — covered  the  sleeper  over  with  comforters  and 
rug,  and  sat  down  to  wait. 

As  he  waited,  the  ironic  humor  in  the  situation  came 


IRON  CITY  197 

over  him  and  he  laughed.  Professor  Ezra  Kimbark, 
of  all  men — drunk! 

In  the  months  past,  in  which  acquaintance  with 
Kimbark  had  become  a  friendship  founded  on  admira 
tion,  there  was  nothing  that  would  prepare  him  to 
see  his  friend  like  this.  And  yet  he  was  not  aston 
ished.  Kimbark  always  had  somehow  a  gift  for  sur 
prise  that  might  well  be  called  theatrical.  It  had 
characterized  their  first  meeting  in  the  storm,  when 
Kimbark  had  broken  upon  him  like  an  apparition; 
that  seemed  now  a  prelude  to  the  man.  He  was  a 
vivid  being,  carrying  his  atmosphere  with  him,  with 
enough  reserve  to  make  Cosmus  never  sure  of  him. 
In  the  limbo  which  lay  behind  his  vivid  personality 
there  was  room,  Cosmus  thought,  for  drunkenness, 
women,  yes,  and  perhaps  wrong.  The  human  heart 
is  always  willing  to  suspect  evil  and  romance  and 
genius  of  its  fellows. 

In  the  last  year,  because  Cosmus  had  been  en 
gaged  in  what  Kimbark  called  "stirring  the  froth  of 
modernity"  (Kimbark  loved  such  metaphors),  the  two 
had  not  seen  so  much  of  each  other.  Kimbark  did 
not  care  for  problems;  Cosmus  was  not  much  inter 
ested  in  abstract  beauty.  So  the  two  had  fallen  apart. 

Now,  Cosmus,  dozing  in  his  chair,  was  suddenly 
awakened;  Kimbark  had  stirred;  his  unseeing  eyes, 
now  of  a  luster  like  a  fish's,  were  peering  out  of  half 
closed  lids.  The  effect  was  horrible.  Cosmus  went 
down  the  hall,  and  came  back  with  a  glass  of  water; 
he  tried  to  get  the  sleeping  man  to  drink.  Kimbark's 
brow  was  burning;  he  stirred  restlessly.  The  night 
was  long;  in  the  morning,  early,  Cosmus  brought  a 
physician.  After  examining  the  patient,  he  turned 
to  Cosmus  and  said,  gravely : 


198  IRON  CITY 

"I  am  afraid  of  pneumonia." 

Cosmus  did  not  want  to  remove  his  friend  to  a  hos 
pital  because  he  was  afraid  of  talk.  To  avoid  it  he 
assumed  the  responsibility  of  nursing  him,  and  an 
nounced  to  the  college  that  Professor  Kimbark  was 
confined  to  his  home  with  a  bad  cold. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  Kimbark's 
fever  broke.  Cosmus,  sitting  in  the  room  alone,  sud 
denly  found  his  friend's  eyes,  previously  so  wild,  now 
questioning  and  sane.  His  first  words  were: 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me  now?" 

Cosmus  smiled  and  answered  jocosely : 

"You're  a  sly  dog,  but  you  mustn't  bark  now.  To 
sleep  with  you." 

Cosmus  could  see  that  Kimbark  was  troubled  con 
siderably,  not  with  physical  pain  but  by  the  thought 
of  his  moral  weakness.  When  he  awoke  two  hours 
later,  he  resumed  the  topic  where  he  had  left  it. 

His  mind  seemed  impaled  upon  the  one  thought  of 
disgrace. 

"I'm  done,  Cosmus :  I'll  never  go  back." 

"Pshaw!  You're  taking  the  matter  too  seriously. 
You're  not  a  drunkard  and  you're  too  valuable  to 
lose." 

"You  don't  understand.     I'm  a  failure,  that's  all." 

"Because  you  slipped  up  once?" 

"It's  another  case  of  the  preacher's  son  gone 
wrong,"  Kimbark  answered  grimly.  "Some  men 
drink  for  taste.  I  drink  for  exhilaration.  I  find  re 
laxation  in  it,  a  recovery  of  much  of  what  I  want  to 
be  and  cannot.  I'm  not  going  to  entertain  you  with  a 
story  of  debauch.  The  drinking,  John,  is  but  a  symp 
tom.  I  know  myself.  The  malady  lies  deeper  and 
there  is  no  remedy." 


IRON  CITY  199 

As  men  at  rare  times  will,  Kimbark  began  to  con 
fide  in  Cosmus. 

"Father  was  a  preacher  in  Indiana — yes,  I  was 
born  midst  the  flat,  dingy  Middle  West,  and  I  guess 
nature  shouldn't  produce  my  kind;  at  least  we  were 
never  intended  for  America.  Business,  industry,  with 
its  refinement  on  nature's  bitter  law  of  survival, 
doesn't  mean  for  us  to  survive.  But  there  are  lots  of 
us,  nevertheless. 

"Well,  I  accepted  Father's  plan  to  enter  the  church, 
but  all  the  time  I  was  pursuing  my  own  little  private 
end:  to  see  beauty,  and  then  to  create  it.  Well,  I 
didn't  find  much  beauty  in  the  corn  lands,  but  I  man 
aged  to  find  it  in  books  and  personality.  Words  I 
loved ;  I  love  them  still.  I  smile  at  the  students  some 
times.  I  seem  but  a  fossil  floating  in  a  thin,  watery 
existence.  In  reality,  I  am  tinglingly  alive,  a  denizen 
of  life's  thick,  sensuous  medium.  All  through  words, 
I  get  all  men's  experience  through  these  windows  of 
life." 

John  interrupted. 

"Aren't  you  a  little  hard  on  the  Middle  West,  Ezra? 
I  have  often  wondered  why  so  little  of  just  that  stuff, 
— cornfields,  barn  yards,  pigs,  tranquil  mediocrity, — 
ever  got  into  American  books?" 

"Thank  God !" 

Cosmus  let  him  go  on ;  it  was  doing  him  good. 

"In  the  Eastern  Seminary  I  found  a  good  deal  of 
bad  theology  and  little  religion;  and  then  I  had  a 
genuine  religious  experience.  At  least  that  is  what  I 
call  it.  At  any  rate,  I  felt  in  a  new  way.  It  was 
when  I  saw  the  sea  for  the  first  time  at  night;  it  lifted 
me  into  new  regions  of  generalization,  the  parts  of 
the  world  flowed  into  one,  and  I  knew  peace.  After 


200  IRON  CITY 

that  I  couldn't  go  into  the  church ;  it  was  too  narrow, 
and  if  I  ever  was  free,  it  was  in  that  moment  on  the 
shore.  I  wrote  and  told  Father.  It  nearly  killed  him, 
I  guess,  and  strange  to  say,  I  began  drinking  then,  for 
I  switched  over  into  the  graduate  school,  and  there 
was  plenty  of  chance." 

John  Cosmus  remembered  Walt  Kuhns  and  his 
story  of  giving  up  the  church. 

"By  the  way,  what  do  you  think  of  the  church, 
Cosmus  ?" 

"I  think  a  good  deal  about  it." 

"You  never  go." 

"You  know  President  Crandon  has  taken  me  to 
task  for  that." 

"I  guess  I  go  out  of  habit,  or  something,"  Kimbark 
admitted. 

"I  stay  away  out  of  principle." 

"How's  that?  I  suppose  you  think  Christ  but  a 
myth?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  believe  in  Him,  in  my  way,  and 
believing  in  my  way  makes  the  church  idolatrous." 

"Idolatrous !  You're  a  devil  of  an  iconoclast,  Cos 
mus." 

"What  I  mean  is  this.  The  church  seems  to  be 
lieve  in  only  Christ's  body.  I  believe  in  Christ's 
spirit.  Ritual,  creed,  belong  to  the  body.  If  men 
would  give  up  these  things  to  the  understanding  of 
the  spirit,  why,  I  believe  that  we  would  not  have  a 
dis-united  and  fossilized  institution,  but  a  great  broth 
erhood." 

"Well?" 

"The  great  contribution  of  Jesus  is  not  an  idea,  but 
a  mood.  As  I  see  it,  it  is  pity  for  the  world,  coupled 
with  great  consuming  desire  to  work  a  change,  and 


IRON  CITY  201 

work  inspired  by  pity  is  but  sacrifice.  And  what  is 
the  crucifixion  and  resurrection  but  sacrifice  dram 
atized?  If  Jesus  had  never  lived,  crucifixion  and 
resurrection  would  still  be  a  universal  symbol  of  the 
soul's  perennial  willingness  to  work  and  to  die  for 
the  race's  good.  Christ  is  in  our  bosoms." 

"Where  did  you  get  this?" 

"Look  within  you.     It  is  there." 

"Then  there  are  Christians  everywhere,  John?" 

"Of  course,  in  places  we  least  expect  to  find  them 
— the  Italian  mother  in  Guy  Street,  among  the  sol 
diers  in  the  trenches." 

"And  in  the  churches  ?" 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  you — yes,  there  too.  But 
I  have  a  suspicion  of  institutions.  They  get  so  set. 
Many  men  go  to  church,  sit  in  silence,  soothed  with 
music,  luxuriate  in  emotion  and  come  away  satisfied 
that  they  have  sacrificed — what?  A  few  moments  of 
egotistic  pleasure.  On  Monday  they  solve  their  bus 
iness  problems  after  the  way  of  all  flesh.  Take  Smith- 
kins." 

"There.  There.  I'll  take  your  word  for  Smith- 
kins." 

"But  I  am  interrupting  you.  What  about  the  grad 
uate  school?" 

"That  can  wait." 

"No,  it  can't.     I  may  not  see  you  again." 

Kimbark  beat  the  coverlet  with  nervous  fingers. 
"Well,  it  was  torture.  I  had  to  do  something  and  so 
I  chose  literature.  You  know  the  system.  Endless 
dissection,  cold  linguistics,  suspicion  of  passion.  I 
stuck  at  it.  I  went  through  the  mill,  and  came  out — 
a  professor.  My  impulse  to  create  was  there  all  right." 


202  IRON  CITY 

He  leaned  on  his  left  elbow,  clenching  the  fist  of 
his  right  hand  above  his  head,  as  one  who  curses. 

"You  know,  Cosmus,  all  tragedies  are  subjective. 
There  are  no  others.  That's  the  reason  we  Americans 
have  never  written  great  drama.  We  care  too  little 
for  souls  and  too  much  for  things.  I  have  suffered. 
I  suffer  yet.  When  I  start  to  write,  my  failures  stand 
up  before  my  eyes,  and  stare  and  stare.  There  is  Mil 
ton  before  me  sneering,  and  Wordsworth.  They  rid 
icule  every  word  I  pen.  Demoniac  ghosts,  they  drive 
me  out  of  my  room,  under  the  stars,  to  recover  in  the 
great  heart  of  nature  the  soul  I  would  have  been  if 
sophistication  had  not  laid  its  syphilitic  kiss  upon 
me.  .  .  .  That's  what  education  has  done  for  me. 
.  .  .  Drink!  Why  shouldn't  I  drink?" 

"Write  your  own  story,  man." 

"I  am  too  weak  even  to  dramatize  my  own  failure." 

There  was  genuine  pathos  in  the  man,  lying  weak 
and  trembling,  his  terrible  face  spasmodic  under  the 
stress  of  his  own  pity.  For  want  of  something  kinder 
to  say,  Cosmus  suggested,  platitudinously : 

"Perhaps,  Ezra,  that  is  what  you  must  sacrifice." 

"I  get  your  argument.  I  must  sacrifice  the  only 
talent  worthy  of  contribution  to  the  race — to  God.  No 
irony  in  that,  to  be  sure,"  he  said  contemptuously. 
"That's  the  trouble  with  you,  Cosmus.  You  do  noth 
ing  but  think.  You  and  the  rest  have  ceased  feeling." 

John  was  silent.  He  had  to  acknowledge  the  truth 
of  his  friend's  accusation.  Kimbark  ushered  him  into 
the  presence  of  life's  vast  disharmonies.  When  the  in 
dividual  is  forbidden  by  the  very  forces  which  the 
race  creates — to  make  contribution  to  the  race — that 
is  tragedy  indeed.  But  why  murmur?  Why  com 
plain?  The  individual  was  nothing. 


IRON  CITY.  203 

He  looked  up.  Ezra  was  sleeping  heavily,  like  one 
exhausted. 

When  they  resumed  their  conversation  the  next  day, 
Kimbark  said  wearily,  "Can't  you  see  that  the  only 
thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  go  to  France?  I  love  her. 
She  alone  gives  me  the  beauty  I  crave.  Perhaps  there 
I  shall  find  the  fulfillment  I  seek.  If  not,  then  the 
lovely  sacrifice  you  speak  of." 

It  seemed  to  Cosmus  as  if  Kimbark  had  grown 
doubly  bitter  in  the  last  few  days. 

"You  know,  Cosmus,  the  State  guards  its  scientists 

behind  the  lines,  but  its  poets "  he  snapped  his 

fingers.  "Anyway,  I'm  not  a  poet.  I'm  a  dog-gone 
failure." 

And  so,  three  days  later,  when  Cosmus  came  hur 
riedly  into  his  room,  he  was  not  altogether  surprised 
to  find  it  empty.  Upon  the  table  was  a  book;  in  the 
book  a  note. 

Dear  John: 

I  leave  you  holding  the  bag.  Be  a  good  sacrificial  beast, 
and  tell  old  Crandon  I  have  gone  to  France.  God  bless 
you,  Cosmus.  Keep  up  the  fight.  I  feel  better  than  I 
have  for  months. 

KIMBARK. 

It  was  then  that  Cosmus  saw  the  book  plate.  It 
bore  the  image  of  a  dungeon  window,  solidly  barred, 
cut  in  heavy  stone,  opening  on  a  sea  of  far  horizons; 
on  the  sea's  rim  a  ship  danced  and  beckoned  in  airy 
freedom. 

Poor  Kimbark! 

The  night  that  Cosmus  heard  that  the  machinists  of 
the  city  had  walked  out  he  went  home  with  Margaret 


204  IRON  CITY 

Morton  from  the  college  library.  Margaret  had  been 
suddenly  taken  sick  in  the  stacks  and  the  librarian 
had  asked  Cosmus  to  help  her  home. 

As  she  walked  beside  him  she  was  unusually  silent. 
She  seemed  like  a  little  gray  mouse  in  her  oils,  steal 
ing  along  in  the  mist.  Cosmus  attributed  her  silence 
to  a  headache,  but  she  would  not  let  him  call  a  taxi. 
Presently  she  said,  "Father's  all  worked  up  about  the 
strike.  It's  a  new  thing  for  Iron  City — this  union 
business." 

Cosmus  was  non-committal.     She  continued: 

"Somehow  I  don't  much  blame  the  men." 

"I  don't,  either." 

Then  they  lapsed  into  silence  again.  The  magic 
and  the  mystery  of  Margaret  were  gone  with  the 
laughter  in  her  voice  and  the  spring  in  her  step.  Cos 
mus  wondered.  At  the  gate,  she  said  quietly: 

"Professor  Cosmus,  I'm  not  doing  well  in  school. 
Wouldn't  you  advise  me  to  stop  ?"  All  this  was  color 
less  ;  then  a  new  note  crept  into  her  voice,  a  beseeching 
note,  near  anguish.  "What  I  need  is  a  fresh  start.  I 
need  to  begin  over  again.  Don't  you  suppose  that 
if  I  should  go  to  France  to  nurse,  I  would  come  back 
more  ready  for  college?" 

Cosmus  did  not  guess  the  depth  of  feeling  behind 
those  questions. 

"You're  too  young,  Margaret,"  he  said. 

"But  I  want  to  be  older;  that  is,  I  want  to  be  dif 
ferent." 

"If  I  were  you,  I  would  fight  it  out  here." 

He  left  her  standing  on  the  veranda,  watching  the 
lights  tremble  and  blur  in  the  tiny  pools  of  water  in 
the  streets.  Cosmus  walked  the  wet  streets,  his  mind 
in  a  turmoil.  To  him  only  the  potentialities  of  men 


IRON  CITY  205 

seemed  important,  and  the  only  tragedy  tm fulfillment. 

In  Margaret,  Samuel  Curtis,  and  Ezra  Kimbark, 
thwarted  as  they  were,  rested  the  problem  of  educa 
tion.  They  had  never  been  led  out.  The  unfathom 
able  sea  of  energy  in  them  had  never  been  sounded. 
In  that  sense,  and  that  sense  only,  they  were  lost 
souls. 

Before  his  eyes  they  merged  and  blended  into  rank 
on  rank,  file  on  file,  of  the  great  unfulfilled — the 
masses — the  people — the  thwarted  of  the  ages.  All 
pity  for  Kimbark  or  Curtis  or  Margaret  was  engulfed 
now  in  the  larger  pity  for  the  crowd,  the  human  foun 
dation  upon  which  all  art,  culture,  science,  progress, 
had  been  vicariously  built.  The  struggle  of  Walt 
Kuhns  against  R.  Sill,  minimized  by  comparison, 
shrank  to  a  trifle,  in  this  larger  perspective  of  the 
ages.  Unions!  What  of  the  trade  guilds  of  the 
Middle  Ages?  Socialism!  What  of  the  syndicalism 
of  Wycliff  ?  In  the  tedious  and  painful  spiral  ascent 
of  society  upwards,  life  renewed  itself  in  similar 
forms.  The  people  were  always  struggling  for  ful 
fillment.  And  the  one  common  impulse — which  could 
never  die — was  the  democratic.  He  only  who  loved 
the  people  had  any  immortality:  he  alone  reached 
backward  into  the  past  and  forward  into  the  future. 

Democracy  was  the  struggle  of  society  to  fulfill  it 
self.  Education  was  but  the  process  of  that  fulfill 
ment.  And  up  to  this  moment  the  haphazard  educa 
tion  of  the  masses  had  been  sealed  and  sanctified  by 
blood.  Oh,  the  pity  of  the  struggle  of  the  crowd 
against  the  class-mind.  Oh,  the  horror  of  shattering 
life,  in  a  passion  for  freedom,  larger  spaces,  and  ideas, 
against  organized  and  powerful  ignorance. 

Cosmus   felt  himself — his  projects — shrink  down 


206  IRON  CITY 

into  their  true  proportions.  This  sweeping  view  of 
the  whole — the  pitiable  struggle — the  past — was  ex 
hilarating,  and  yet  it  dulled  the  fine  edge  of  effort. 
Something  was  gone.  It  was  hope.  He  knew  that 
success  would  not  come  to-morrow  or  the  next  day. 
They — he  and  Kuhns  and  youth  everywhere — all  were 
but  skirmishers  in  the  eternal  army. 

As  he  went  on  in  the  moonlight,  thinking  these 
things,  the  sweefmale  voice  of  some  worker  broke 
the  silence,  in  a  plaintive  song,  that  Cosmus  followed 
into  the  night.  It  was  an  old  song,  but  until  now 
Cosmus  had  never  understood  it. 

"My  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 
Lord." 

The  music  ceased  on  the  edge  of  the  factory  which, 
stained  with  color,  shouldered  up  in  the  mist,  all  its 
daylight  ugliness  gone — a  thing  of  strength  and  beau 
ty.  This  creation  of  the  strong — industry — the  new 
empire — what  had  democracy  to  do  with  it? 

Democracy,  it  seemed  to  him,  after  all,  was  but  the 
promise  of  the  strong  not  to  exploit  the  weak ! 

When  he  went  back  home,  he  called  up  Sarah  Black- 
stone,  to  ask  if  he  might  call  and  be  forgiven. 

"For  what?"  she  asked. 

"For  my  rudeness!" 

"Oh,  were  you  rude?" 

After  a  few  commonplaces,  she  said  casually: 

"By  the  way,  I  have  been  thinking  all  week  of  going 
to  France." 

She,  too? 

Strange  that  all  the  world — individuals  and  races — 
were  seizing  upon  the  war  as  an  instrument  of  self- 
fulfillment!  They  were  but  moths  in  a  flame!  But 
Sarah  was  not  going.  She  must  not  go.  He  would 
not  let  her. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TV/I"  ARGARET  found  that  events  record  their 
A* A  changes  but  gradually.  The  sense  of  loss,  of 
difference,  that  had  crept  into  her  mind  the  first 
morning  after  the  major  experience  of  her  life,  had 
vanished;  then  it  appeared  again  with  keener  sting, 
after  Raymond's  indifference  over  the  telephone.  She 
now  found  that  it  was  a  constant  companion,  boring 
ceaselessly  into  her  consciousness.  Things  were  no 
different;  the  difference  lay  only  in  her  attitude  to 
ward  them.  For  the  first  time  she  was  thrown  upon 
herself,  and  she  found  herself  helpless.  What  had 
she  to  do  with  thoughts?  She  became  morbidly  con 
scious  of  functions  that  were  merely  normal.  She 
heard  blood  pounding  in  her  ears;  her  heart  seemed 
to  beat  in  her  throat ;  she  thought  she  heard  bells  ring 
ing;  and  her  eyelids  twitched  nervously.  She  couldn't 
study;  she  could  not  play.  Her  old  self-assurance 
was  gone.  If  she  went  to  a  dance,  she  trembled  when 
she  danced,  grew  confused,  and  missed  her  step.  Gay- 
ety  was  but  forced,  halting  and  conscious. 

When  her  girl  chums  noticed  the  defection  from 
her  old  manner,  they  nudged  each  other,  and  said, 
"Mag's  got  it  bad."  Or  they  came  to  her,  teasing. 
"What's  wrong,  Maggie?"  they  asked.  "Have  you 
heard  that  Ray's  going  for  sure?" 

And  she  would  answer,  trying  to  smile, 
"Wait  till  you  get  as  old  as  I  am,  then  you'll  under 
stand!" 

207 


208  IRON  CITY 

Then  she  would  catch  herself  wondering  if  she 
were  getting  old.  Did  age  come  this  way?  Old,  and 
never  married! 

With  all  this  self-examination,  Margaret  felt  no 
guilt  because  of  responsibility  to  society;  and  she  felt 
no  remorse  because  of  a  responsibility  to  a  Higher 
Being,  who,  having  invented  desire,  then  contrived 
social  institutions  to  curb  it.  Calvinism  held  no  sway 
over  her. 

How  revealing  of  changing  standards  it  would 
have  been  to  know  what  empty  meaning  Margaret 
would  have  found  in  that  epic  of  an  earlier  day,  "The 
Scarlet  Letter."  Surely,  austere  self-torture,  in  the 
presence  of  an  unseen,  angry  God,  was  not  a  part  of 
her  reaction.  And  as  for  the  law — Margaret  would 
have  been  willing  to  stand  up  before  Iron  City  at 
any  moment,  with  Raymond,  and  say,  "This  is  my 
man,"  or  go  off  with  him,  without  so  much  as  paying 
a  license  fee  at  the  county  clerk's  office.  But  why 
this  sense  of  loss?  It  must  have  been  because  Ray 
mond  despised  her. 

In  her  way  Margaret  suffered. 

In  spite  of  her  precocious  knowledge  of  sex,  she 
was  innocent.  Sophistication  was  instinctive,  not  ac 
quired.  And,  too,  she  became  morbidly  curious  about 
this  mysterious  extra-equipment  of  her  body  called 
sex.  She  craved  more  knowledge  about  it.  There 
was  something  pitiable  in  her  feeble  research  meth 
ods.  Cut  off  from  her  mother,  and  from  any  scien 
tific  treatment  of  the  subject,  she  seized  upon  the  few 
words  that  came  into  her  mind  laden  with  meaning, 
and  began  to  trace  them  by  cross  references,  from 
dictionary  to  encyclopedia.  This  task  had  engaged 
her  the  night  she  became  sick  at  the  library.  She  had 


IRON  CITY  209 

suddenly  come  upon  a  plate  depicting  vividly  all  the 
naked  truth  of  reproduction,  under  the  caption,  "Ob 
stetrics."  She  plunged  into  night,  ineffably  alone; 
she  waded  through  seas  of  sickening  darkness.  Would 
that  unspeakable  experience  come  to  her?  God!  She 
couldn't  stand  it.  She  was  too  young,  too  much  alone. 

The  next  morning  at  chapel  she  was  acutely  aware 
of  what  the  organ  said.  It  seemed  to  roll  billows  of 
black  sound  over  a  bruised  and  tortured  body — and 
to  bellow  dismally  of  lost  things.  Loss,  loss,  loss. 
Margaret  leaned  her  head  on  the  back  of  the  seat  in 
front  of  her  and  trembled  like  a  craven.  John  Cos- 
mus,  seeing  her  at  that  moment,  thought  that  she  was 
praying.  When  the  organ  ceased,  Margaret  knew 
that  she  must  tell  her  mother.  Confidently,  a  half 
hour  later,  she  went  into  the  living-room,  where  her 
mother  sat  sewing,  and  said, 

"Mother,  I've  something  to  tell  you " 

Then  she  could  get  no  farther;  she  could  utter  no 
other  word;  she  combed  her  mind  for  some  sentence 
— some  fragment  of  news — to  interpolate  at  this  point, 
and  all  she  could  say  was, 

"Well,  I  forget  what  it  was  now.    Isn't  that  funny?" 

Then  began  a  battle — a  miserable  struggle — to  tell. 
She  knew  she  must,  and  she  knew  she  would.  She 
became  obsessed  with  the  notion  that  she  would  some 
time  blurt  out  the  whole  story  before  her  father, 
or  before  some  guest.  She  tried  to  formulate  a  laconic 
message  that  would  reveal  all,  in  unshocking  terms. 

Finally  one  morning,  she  said  abruptly,  "Mother, 
you'd  better  get  Raymond  Sill  to  marry  me." 

She  had  done  it. 

Mrs.  Morton  looked  up  from  her  sewing,  under 
stood,  but  did  not  answer.  She  went  to  the  telephone 


210  IRON  CITY 

and  called  for  Carl  Morton,  and  then  for  Doctor 
Carr. 

"Come  to  my  room,  Maggie;  I'm  going  to  bed. 
I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  have  an  operation." 

"Oh,  Mother,  don't." 

But  Mrs.  Morton  had  fainted. 

Carl  Morton,  living  with  facts  all  his  life,  thought 
until  the  moment  he  discovered  his  daughter's  train 
ing  had  been  inadequate  to  meet  the  stress  of  her  gen 
eration,  that  a  fact  was  the  hardest  foe  in  the  world  to 
face.  But  now  it  was  not  the  fact  of  Margaret's  se 
duction,  but  its  unreality  that  crushed  him.  He  could 
not  believe  it.  He  would  not  accept  it. 

He  was  always  seeing  his  little  girl  as  he  wanted 
her  to  be,  never  as  she  actually  was.  Margaret  looked 
no  different;  indeed  she  was  more  beautiful,  if  any 
thing — and  more  considerate.  She  hung  over  his 
chair  at  night,  with  a  light  for  his  pipe,  as  he  had 
longed  to  have  her  do ;  he  sat  back  luxuriating  in  the 
comfort  of  it,  and  immediately  the  Great  Shame  which 
was  so  unreal  became  the  bitterest  reality  of  his  life. 

Carl  said  no  word  directly  or  indirectly  to  Mar 
garet  that  led  her  to  believe  that  he  knew  her  trouble. 
Some  delicacy — some  sentiment — made  him  mute  in 
the  presence  of  this  fact.  He  tried  hard  not  to  let  it 
make  any  difference  in  his  relations.  For  a  time  he 
succeeded  so  well  that  Margaret  inquired  of  her 
mother,  now  confined  to  her  bed,  whether  her  father 
really  knew. 

"Yes,  he  does — and  you  have  nearly  killed  him." 

One  day  when  Margaret  came  down  to  the  living 
room,  she  found  her  father,  not  reading  as  was  his 
custom,  but  sitting  very  still,  his  hands  gripping  the 
arms  of  the  chair  fiercely,  and  his  eyes  dull  and  dis- 


IRON  CITY  211 

tant.  She  knelt  down  beside  him,  laying  her  head  on 
his  knee. 

"Oh,  Father,  don't.  Please  don't.  Do  you  hate 
me?" 

He  got  up  hurriedly,  with  a  swift  gesture  at  his 
eyes,  and  walked  quickly  out  of  the  room. 

After  that,  he  seemed  farther  away  from  her  than 
ever;  something  of  her  mother's  resentment  seemed 
to  show  itself  in  him. 

To  make  matters  worse  Carl  Morton  was  dispos 
sessed  of  all  normal  functions.  The  men  at  the  fac 
tory  thought  that  "the  Strike  had  got  the  old  boy." 
It  had  not,  but  it  had  left  him  free  to  brood  over  per 
sonal  troubles.  He  was  torn  between  two  courses, 
the  desire  to  succor  his  little  girl,  and  his  respect  for 
law  and  custom.  Margaret,  now  that  trouble  had 
come  to  her,  seemed  to  need  him  more  than  ever; 
she  was  like  a  child  again.  At  the  same  time  the 
weight  of  custom,  that  brutal  collective  opinion  of  the 
mass,  to  which  he  was  so  acutely  sensitive,  grew  in 
his  imagination,  to  some  gigantic  monster  standing 
ready  to  ruin  them.  He  must  not  be  tender  to  Mar 
garet,  for  that  would  be  encouraging  social  crime ;  and 
yet,  always,  he  saw  her  as  a  child  reaching  out  tiny, 
supplicating  arms  to  him. 

So  he  struggled  pitiably — until  the  chronicle  of  his 
suffering  showed  itself  in  his  carriage  and  face.  The 
four  weeks  that  followed  Margaret's  confession  Mor 
ton  spent  pretty  much  alone  at  home,  trying  to  con 
vince  himself  that  the  Trouble  was  real.  There  was 
no  work  for  him  to  do  at  the  factory;  it  was  shut 
down.  Morton  did  not  understand  his  master.  He 
had  gone  to  Sill  early  in  the  strike,  and  had  shown 


212  IRON  CITY 

him  how  they  could  run  along  with  half  force  and 
seventy  per  cent  production.  Sill  had  replied, 

"By  God,  no!  This  town  is  going  to  get  its  belly 
full  of  strike — and  they'll  never  want  another  one." 
And  Morton  saw  Sill  thrive  on  the  struggle. 

One  afternoon  Morton,  driven  to  confusion  with 
the  thought  of  Margaret's  disgrace,  suddenly  came  to 
a  realization  of  its  reality.  In  one  of  his  brown 
studies,  as  Mrs.  Morton  called  them,  there  floated  up 
from  the  deeps  of  memory  a  picture  of  the  past.  He 
saw,  with  the  sharpness  of  first  impression,  the  first 
time  that  he  had  performed  all  the  rites  of  mother 
hood  for  the  baby.  It  was  Sunday,  and  Mrs.  Morton 
had  taken  suddenly  to  bed;  from  the  pillow,  she  di 
rected  him,  as  he  awkwardly  bathed  and  dressed  lit 
tle  Margaret.  His  fatherhood,  hitherto  so  shy, 
warmed  with  tenderness,  and  he  felt  for  the  first  time 
that  the  baby  was  his.  That  very  afternoon  a  cousin 
of  Mrs.  Morton's  had  come  in,  bringing  her  son,  not 
quite  three.  In  the  course  of  his  rompings,  the  boy 
had  struck  little  Margaret  upon  the  head  with  a  stick. 
The  blow  seemed  to  fall  a  hundred  times  upon  his 
own  head. 

There  was  an  impulse  to  rend  little  Billy  limb  from 
limb,  to  snatch  up  his  own  child  and  flee;  and  still 
he  smiled  at  the  guest,  and  pretended  that  the  blow 
had  not  much  hurt  the  baby.  Sitting  there  this  after 
noon,  he  reexperienced,  with  redoubled  pain,  the  force 
of  the  boy's  assault  upon  Margaret. 

Groaning  audibly,  he  found  his  hat,  and  dragged 
his  feet  out  into  the  street.  He  went  straight  to  the 
factory,  and  found  R.  Sill.  As  Sill  saw  his  fore 
man,  wild  eyed  and  haggard,  stumble  into  his  office, 
his  mind  at  once  jumped  to  his  own  affairs. 


IRON  CITY  213 

"Why,  Morton,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  your 
self — worrying  about  this  strike?  It's  as  good  as 
won.  Do  as  I  do;  thrive  on  it." 

Morton  sat  down  feebly  in  a  chair  and  said  bluntly, 

"Raymond's  got  Margaret  in  trouble,  Bob " 

"You  mean ?" 

Morton  nodded  his  head. 

"Why,  the  damned  fool." 

That  was  all  from  Sill. 

To  tell  the  truth,  R.  Sill  was  not  greatly  surprised; 
his  real  concern  was  for  Raymond.  What  incon 
venience  would  this  escapade  entail  ?  Now  that  he  had 
his  son  comfortably  settled  in  the  Efficiency  Depart 
ment,  he  didn't  want  to  send  him  away. 

In  the  silence  that  intervened  Sill  got  up  and  called 
Raymond. 

He  said  significantly  to  Morton, 

"Say  nothing;  I'll  handle  him." 

In  a  moment,  the  young  man  stood  before  his 
father,  entirely  ignoring  Carl  Morton,  like  a  soldier 
at  attention  in  the  center  of  the  room. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  said  defiantly. 

"You  know  very  well,  Ray,"  answered  his  father. 

Raymond  was  startled  for  a  moment,  then  he  re 
covered  his  composure. 

"Well,"  continued  Sill,  "what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  this  problem?" 

Raymond  had  no  trouble  in  finding  words. 

"I  don't  know  what  this  man  has  been  telling  you, 
Father,  but  I  don't  see  that  there  is  a  problem.  He'd 
better  get  the  others  first." 

Others ! 

That  word  fell  on  Morton  cruelly. 

"That's  an  insulting  lie,  young  man" — he  snapped 


214  IRON  CITY 

and  he  sprang  up,  roused  instantly  from  his  lethargy. 

"No  scene  here,  Morton.    That'll  do,  Ray." 

When  Sill  turned  from  the  door  that  shut  Raymond 
out,  he  saw  Morton  dejectedly  looking  at  his  feet,  tears 
running  down  his  cheek.  He  did  not  know  that  it  was 
only  years-old  respect  for  himself — the  master — that 
had  kept  Morton  from  braining  Raymond  with  a 
chair. 

Carl  began  agitatedly, 

"You  won't  believe  him.  You  can't  believe  him, 
Bob.  Margaret  loves  him.  Margaret's  innocent.  I'll 
bring  her  here  to  tell  you  herself " 

"Now,  now,  now,  man,"  growled  Sill  behind  up 
raised  hands,  "don't  get  excited,  Morton.  This,  like 
all  problems,  must  be  approached  coolly." 

"But  you'll  make  him  marry  her !" 

"Sit  down,  Morton,  sit  down — let's  go  over  this  to 
gether." 

"Think  what  people  will  say." 

"People  be  damned."  Sill  leaned  back  in  his  swivel 
chair,  picked  up  a  paper  weight,  measured  its  pro 
portions  carefully,  then  said  reflectively, 

"Morton,  you  and  I  are  back  numbers  in  these  mat 
ters;  time  was  when  the  fuss  you  are  making  would 
be  just  about  the  thing,  but  people  are  seeing  things 
different  now." 

Morton  looked  as  if  he  would  contradict  him. 

"No,  don't  interrupt  till  I'm  through."  It  was  the 
master  talking.  Morton  kept  silent,  humped  in  a  chair 
like  one  who  is  old  and  freezing. 

"Life  is  a  fight,  that's  all.  All  this  rosy  mythology 
about  the  brotherhood  of  man  goes  very  well  in 
churches,  but  between  men  it  don't  go.  Why,  you 
know  how  it  is  in  business;  the  strong  win,  don't  they? 


IRON  CITY  215 

You  and  I  have  been  through  enough  scraps  together 
to  understand  that,  haven't  we?"  This  he  said  ex 
pansively,  with  his  heartiest  note  of  comradeship. 

"Now  I  figure,"  he  continued,  "that  the  young  peo 
ple  haven't  bgged  behind,  and  are  seeing  life  pretty 
much  as  it  is  these  days.  They're  older  at  sixteen  than 
we  were  at  twenty-four  and  they  know  very  well  that 
love  hain't  only  a  matter  of  holding  hands." 

Morton  was  not  following  very  well,  for  Sill's 
analysis  of  the  world  he  was  living  in  ran  so  counter 
to  Morton's  own  conception  that  he  could  not  grasp  it. 

Sill  went  on. 

"With  divorces,  and  small  apartments,  the  home 
ain't  what  it  used  to  be.  Why,  I  remember  that  grand 
father's  house  in  Vermont  had  thirty  rooms  in  it.  The 
family  meant  more  then.  Just  take  the  case  of  Ray 
mond  and  your  girl.  I  bet  she  is  not  all  cut  up  about 
this,  is  she  now?" 

"It  made  her  mother  sick." 

"Your  girl  probably  understands  better  than 
you " 

"You  mean,  what?" 

"I  mean  that  I  can't  make  Raymond  marry  her. 
It  isn't  necessary." 

Morton  sat  speechless,  his  eyes  on  Sill's  face. 

"Love  is  a  fight,  too,"  Morton's  master  went  on, 
"and  the  strong  win."  He  turned  out  his  hands.  "Of 
course,  I'm  sorry  it  hit  your  girl,  Morton,  but  it 
needn't ;  we  can  fix  that.  She  can  go  away  for  a  few 
months,  and  we  can  fix  up  the  bill." 

Morton's  confused  mind  did  not  completely  grasp 
the  fact  that  the  philosophy  Sill  was  expounding  so 
fluently,  was  merely  that  through  which  they  both. 


216  IRON  CITY 

had  gained  their  power.  Sill  was  expressing  what 
he  saw  everywhere  around  him,  the  invasion  of  the 
home  by  the  economic  law  of  the  survival  of  the  fit 
test.  Morton  himself  had  been  a  lieutenant  in  many 
great  struggles;  but  from  a  higher  motive  than  Sill, 
out  of  respect  and  admiration  for  a  friend;  therefore, 
he  would  not  be  expected  to  see  all  so  clearly.  But 
something  of  Sill's  truth  he  began  to  grasp,  and  he 
found  it  changing  the  shape  of  his  whole  world.  For 
some  inexplicable  reason  he  found  himself  thinking 
of  Walt  Kuhns. 

Rising,  he  said  wearily, 

"I  don't  want  your  money,  Bob,  nor  your  counsel 
either.  You  know  that." 

"Well,  we  understand  each  other  anyway,  don't 
we?"  Sill  demanded. 

Morton  evaded  the  question.  "After  the  strike  is 
over,  Bob,"  he  said  curtly,  "you  better  look  for  an 
other  man  for  the  forge  room.  I'm  done." 

"You're  a  fool,  Morton." 

"I'm  done." 

He  went  out  tremblingly.  Margaret  might  better 
be  dead!  How  noisily  an  empty  life  runs! 

What  a  tragedy  it  is  to  build  a  life  upon  another 
life,  only  to  find  both  shattered  because  of  one.  What 
prolonged  agony  may  lie  beneath  the  seamed  face  and 
quiet  manner  of  the  man  next  you  in  the  car,  or  facing 
you  in  the  street!  Walt  Kuhns  was  such  a  man,  per 
haps. 

"Here's  your  cap,  Mr.  Morton."  It  was  Mr.  Sill's 
stenographer.  How  sweet  she  looked !  How  clean ! 

"Thanks,  Miss  Effie." 

And  Carl  Morton  found  himself  on  the  street. 


IRON  CITY  217 

Perhaps  Margaret  was  not  serious  about  going  to 
France;  at  any  rate,  she  made  no  effort  to  leave  col 
lege,  and  to  enter  war  work.  That  atmosphere  of 
ideas  that  had  enfolded  her  like  a  fate,  gave  her  an 
other  toss  into  bitter  experience,  the  night  after  Carl's 
interview  with  R.  Sill. 

In  the  hope  of  regaining  some  of  her  old  happi 
ness,  Margaret  went  to  the  Green  Jewel  with  the  girls. 
From  the  moment  that  they  entered  she,  tense  and 
fearful,  was  unable  to  take  her  eyes  from  the  screen. 
The  play  was  "Adam  Bede." 

Through  the  medium  of  the  play  Margaret  now 
began  to  see  that  she  had  taken  her  affair  with  Ray 
mond  too  lightly,  whereas  the  proper  thing,  the  in 
evitable  course,  was  to  destroy  herself.  All  heroines 
did  that.  She  must  die. 

She  made  that  resolution  and  afterwards  she  was 
filled  with  exultation.  The  girls  found,  on  the  way 
home,  that  Margaret  Morton  had  recovered  most  of 
her  old  gayety. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHAT  we  need  is  a  Horse-Thieves'  Associa 
tion." 

It  was  Haskell  speaking  at  a  conference  of  the  lead 
ing  citizens  of  Iron  City  over  the  "appalling  state  of 
our  fair  city  due  to  the  blind  greed  and  voracity  of 
certain  workers,  misled  by  mercenary  and  brutal  walk 
ing  delegates." 

The  last  phrases  were  those  of  Senator  Matt  Tyler, 
in  whose  office  had  gathered  Sill,  Boyne  and  Haskell. 

Haskell  continued, 

"When  I  was  in  Idaho,  I  saw  just  how  effective 
such  a  little  alliance  could  be.  We  all  belonged — from 
editor  to  bar-tender;  and  when  we  caught  the  thief, 
zip,  he  was  strung  up." 

Perhaps  Haskell  was  not  serious.  What  he  lacked 
was  imagination.  The  fatality  of  the  class-mind  is 
to  forget  that  those  outside  the  charmed  circle  are 
human  beings. 

"But  you  didn't  have  to  face  two  thousand  thieves," 
said  Boyne,  who  was  inclined  to  be  pessimistic. 

"There's  only  one,"  Sill's  big  voice  boomed. 

"Kuhns,  of  course,"  Haskell  explained,  anxious  to 
bring  the  meeting  into  his  own  hands  again.  Sill 
did  not  answer.  He  despised  Haskell  for  dealing  in 
the  obvious. 

"But  we  can't  hang  him,"  Boyne  continued. 

"Still  there  is  a  strong  point  in  Haskell's  sugges- 

218 


IRON  CITY  219 

tion."  Senator  Tyler  always  considered  his  particular 
function  to  be  the  judicial. 

"Well,  we've  got  to  do  something,"  Boyne  con 
tinued;  "in  spite  of  optimism  in  some  quarters  (this 
was  meant  for  a  thrust  at  Sill)  the  strikers  have  had 
the  best  of  the  bargain,  and  are  carrying  the  senti 
ment  of  the  town." 

"That's  because  of  Cosmus — young  fool,"  put  in 
Haskell,  "but  they're  not  carrying  sentiment  outside 
of  the  city." 

"Thanks  to  the  Republic-Despatch,,  I  suppose," 
sneered  Boyne. 

"Listen  here" — Haskell  went  on,  ignoring  Boyne's 
thrust.  "This  from  the  Trinway  Globe! 

"  'Iron  City  is  enjoying  unusual  prosperity  with  all  the 
luxuries  thrown  in.  Strikes  are  daily  occurrences.  Hun 
dreds  of  men  with  families  are  anxious  to  work  and  pay 
for  their  homes ;  but  the  powers  that  be  say  'no.'  Trin 
way  is  content  to  go  a  little  slower  and  manage  her  own 
business.' 

"That  ought  to  fetch  'em.  I  am  running  that  on 
the  front  page  to-morrow.  If  once  the  public  sees  that 
the  strike  is  ruining  its " 

"Gentlemen,"  R.  Sill  inquired,  "is  this  a  meeting 
of  the  Ladies'  Aid?" 

It  was  the  signal  they  were  waiting  for.  The  bal 
ance  of  power  in  any  assembly  always  gravitates  to 
the  strongest  will.  With  alacrity  Boyne,  Tyler,  and 
Haskell  made  themselves  attentive,  and  the  conference 
took  on  an  air  of  greater  formality.  They  all  knew 
that  Sill  carried  the  solution  of  the  problem  behind 
his  ears;  and  instinctively  they  knew  that  the  battle 


220  IRON  CITY 

lay  now,  and  had  lain,  between  just  two  champions, 
Sill  and  Kuhns. 

Sill,  unable  to  conceal  his  satisfaction  in  his  own 
power,  spoke  again. 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  the  core-makers  asked 
to  go  back  to  work  this  morning." 

"Is  that  so?"  asked  Boyne. 

"Bully!"  Tyler  exclaimed. 

"Like  whipped  dogs,"  chuckled  Haskell. 

"That,  gentlemen,  is  the  close  of  the  first  stage  of 
our  campaign.  It  means  that  our  method  of  attrition 
is  working;  if  the  core-makers  are  sick  of  the  strike, 
the  merchants  and  the  public  soon  will  be.  And  let 
me  point  out  that  some  gentlemen,  you  remember  ( Sill 
was  looking  directly  at  Boyne)  were  anxious  to  stag 
ger  along  for  months  on  half  an  output,  and  give  the 
strikers  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  us  stagger;  that 
would  have  been  mere  foolishness.  Nothing  short  of 
complete  paralysis  of  trade  would  be  effective." 

Sill  raised  his  voice  slightly,  "I  repeat,  this  is  no 
mere  local  disturbance;  this  is  a  nation-wide  move 
ment,  and  we'll  teach  the  country  how  to  rid  itself 
of  these  jackals.  I  venture  to  say,  gentlemen,  that 
after  we  are  through  with  them,  there  will  never  be 
another  strike  in  Iron  City." 

He  lit  a  cigar  and  Tyler,  clearing  his  throat,  said, 

"We  find  in  the  interference  of  the  constitutional 
rights  of  citizens  by  organized  labor,  that  the  freedom 
of  individuals  has  been  restricted  and  personal  liberty 
assailed." 

Sill  turned  gratefully  to  Senator  Matt  Tyler;  he 
found  that  Tyler  never  failed  to  clothe  his  beliefs  and 
practices  in  the  high  sounding  language  of  the  legal 
tradition.  It  was  as  if  the  toga  concealed  the  brutal 


IRON  CITY  221 

sinews  of  a  war-god  in  ks  softening  folds.  For  this, 
Sill  found  Tyler  indispensable,  and  loved  him  as  a 
comrade  and  brother. 

"That's  just  it,  Matt,  and  you're  the  man  to  put 
that  across  to  the  people.  The  second  step  in  our 
campaign  is  to  take  advantage  of  the  restless  senti 
ment  of  the  public  against  the  strikers,  and  crystallize 
it  into  action.  Yes,  you're  right,  Haskell,  we  need  a 
Horse-Thieves'  Association.  What  do  you  think  of 
an  Iron  City  Citizens'  Alliance?"  He  turned  to 
Boyne.  "When  once  we  get  the  public  behind  us,  we 
can  go  the  limit,  and  even  hang  Kuhns!"  and  Sill 
smiled  grimly  at  his  own  humor. 

Everywhere  in  this  materialistic  civilization  of  ours 
we  see  evidence  of  the  mathematical  imagination  at 
work.  Bridges  are  built,  canals  dug,  abysses  spanned, 
buildings  lifted — the  great  and  terrible  cities  laid  down 
— by  the  vivid  precision  of  the  scientific  mind.  But 
what  we  lack  is  poetic  imagination,  that  kind  of  in 
sight  which  lets  us  into  other  lives.  This  faculty  and 
this  only  may  make  our  civilization  safe  and  democ 
racy  real. 

Sill  had  mathematical  imagination;  he  lacked  woe 
fully  the  poetic.  Perhaps  he  was  not  serious  when  he 
spoke  of  hanging  Walt  Kuhns,  only  blind. 

There  followed  more  discussion.  Sill  made  clearer 
his  plans.  Tyler  was  to  draw  up  the  manifesto,  which 
would  serve  as  the  keynote  speech,  for  the  formation 
of  the  Citizens'  Alliance.  A  young  lawyer  chosen  to 
be  vice-president,  would  deliver  the  speech  and  Sen 
ator  Tyler  would  lend  his  name  to  the  movement  as 
president.  The  alliance  would  seek  to  embrace  all  the 
manufacturers  and  merchants  of  the  city.  But  first 
they  must  be  won,  and  the  only  way  to  win  them  was 


222  IRON  CITY 

to  show  them  that  the  strike  had  ruined  trade,  and 
had  blackened  the  fair  name  of  the  city. 

Pens  and  paper  were  brought  out,  and  soon  in  neat 
long-hand,  Matt  Tyler,  U.  S.  Senator,  was  drafting 
page  after  page  of  eloquent  argument. 

Sill  leaned  over  the  table. 

"One  word,  Matt.  This  Alliance  must  be  entirely 
democratic." 

"Of  course,  coincident  with  the  ideals  of  the  na 
tion." 

"I  was  thinking,"  returned  Sill,  "that  we  could  use 
some  such  plan  as  this.  We  could  vote  according  to 
establishments,  say,  each  establishment  to  have  one 
vote  for  every  four  employees.  Let's  see,  that  would 
give  you,  Boyne,  three  hundred,  and  me  one  thou 
sand." 

"We  can  fix  that" 

There  was  more  scratching,  and  more  consultation, 
and  then,  at  length,  with  dignity  and  formality,  Sen 
ator  Tyler  arose  and  read  : 

"The  Alliance  concedes  the  absolute  right  of  all  persons 
to  organize  for  the  protection  and  furtherance  of  their 
common  interest  by  proper  methods,  but  it  denies  the 
right  to  organize  for  an  unlawful  purpose  by  unlawful 
means.  If  the  purpose  of  any  organization,  whether  of 
capital  or  labor,  is  to  hamper  or  restrict  the  freedom  of 
the  individual  to  follow  what  association  he  will,  to  coerce 
other  persons  to  become  members  of  such  organizations 
and  to  come  under  its  rules  and  regulations,  under  pen 
alty  of  a  loss  of  employment  or  of  business,  then  such 
organization  is  unlawful,  is  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  our 
government,  and  to  the  spirit  of  American  institutions." 

When  Tyler  reached  the  last  phrases  he  mouthed 
them  melodiously. 


IRON  CITY  223 

There  was  a  rustle  of  applause.  Haskell,  lean  and 
fulsome,  was  clapping  his  hands  softly,  even  Boyne 
caught  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  attempt,  while 
Sill  was  visibly  elated. 

"We  find  in  the  interference  of  the  constitutional 
rights  of  citizens  by  organized  labor,  that  the  freedom  of 
the  individual  has  been  restricted,  and  personal  liberty 
assailed.  Men  have  desired  the  right — our  merchants 
and  tradesmen — of  managing  their  own  business  affairs 
and  they  have  doubtless,  as  a  matter  of  policy,  submitted 
to  this,  and  more  than  this,  have  paid  tribute,  by  way  of 
advertising,  through  channels  which  sought  to  forge  the 
chains  tighter  and  tighter,  and  further  encroach  upon 
their  legitimate  rights  and  liberties  as  men  and  citizens." 

As  Senator  Tyler  was  moistening  his  lips  to  pro 
ceed,  there  came  a  rattling  knock  on  the  office  door. 
The  Senator  frowned,  but  as  the  summons  continued, 
he  walked  resentfully  across  the  carpeted  room  and 
threw  open  the  door. 

On  the  threshold  stood  Walt  Kuhns.  The  Senator 
looked  embarrassed.  Haskell  blessed  "Jesus  Christ!" 
under  his  breath  and  began  to  laugh  as  boys  do  who 
are  caught  in  mischief.  Boyne  was  preoccupied  with 
something  out  of  the  window.  Then  Tyler,  having 
brushed  his  hair  three  times  with  his  unencumbered 
hand,  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  Walt  Kuhns,  who 
was  standing  at  ease  in  the  hall,  anticipated  him. 

"Is  there  room  for  a  representative  of  the  press, 
gentlemen?" 

Sill,  alone  unperturbed,  his  eyes  glittering  and  keen, 
answered  as  a  general  should, 

"Men  have  been  shot  for  an  intrusion  less  insult 
ing  than  this — press  or  no  press." 

Kuhns  never  flinched,  though  the  words  were  bitter. 


224  IRON  CITY 

"Oh  well,"  he  answered  smiling,  "please  to  re 
member  that  if  you  happen  to  be  interested  in  unions, 
gentlemen,  the  'Labor  Defense'  is  at  your  service, 
and  the  Trades  Council  keeps  open  house." 

"Shut  the  door,  Tyler,"  commanded  Sill,  bluntly. 

The  door  was  closed,  but  to  a  keen  observer,  some 
thing  close  to  admiration  for  a  moment  flickered  in 
the  eyes  of  R.  Sill,  then  was  gone.  Tyler  marched 
back  to  the  end  of  the  table,  while  Haskell,  pale  and 
trembling,  began  to  curse. 

"He'll  give  me  hell  in  that  sheet  of  his  now — 
the  black-hearted " 

"Don't  swear,  Haskell,  are  you  afraid  ?" 

Tyler  began  again, 

"The  sacred  and  inalienable  rights  of  citizen- 
ship- 

"All  right,  Senator,"  Sill  broke  in,  "that  win  do 
very  well.  We  understand  each  other,"  and  picking 
up  his  hat,  he  strode  out.  The  meeting  was  over. 

Three  days  later  at  a  mass  meeting  at  Johnson's 
Opera  House  the  Iron  City  Citizens'  Alliance  came  to 
life.  Cosmus,  a  spectator,  in  the  back  of  the  hall,  was 
interested  to  see  on  the  platform,  between  Matt  Tyler 
and  Martin  Boyne,  President  Hugh  Crandon  of  Cran- 
don  Hill  College.  The  meeting  was  unreeled  as  re 
hearsed  in  Tyler's  office  a  week  before;  the  young 
lawyer,  mouthing  Senator  Tyler's  words,  drew  ap 
plause  from  the  audience  at  the  proper  moment,  so 
that  R.  Sill,  at  the  vantage  point  behind  the  scene, 
surveying  the  whole  drama,  asi  the  mover  of  the 
strings,  knew  that  the  second  battle  of  the  campaign 
was  duly  won. 

The  following  Sunday,  Reverend  Mr.  Dingley,  of 


IRON  CITY  225 

the  First  Congregational  Church,  preached  on  the  text, 
"Be  of  the  same  mind,  one  with  another." 

Although  the  strike  had  been  in  progress  for  two 
months,  and  Iron  City  had  writhed  in  anguish,  this 
was  the  first  Sunday  that  Reverend  Mr.  Dingley  had 
referred  to  the  subject  so  near  to  all  hearts.  Now  he 
said: 

"Organizations  have  underestimated  the  rights  and 
the  place  of  the  individual  man,  whether  in  the  form 
of  a  mob  of  lynchers,  or  trusts  or  labor  unions.  Labor 
unions  have  underestimated  the  relation  of  religion 
to  the  individual  man,  and  have  chosen  to  shape  their 
movements  in  the  saloon  rather  than  under  the  pro 
tecting  mantle  of  the  Church.  Perforce,  union  men 
— for  we  may  think  of  men  only  as  individuals — have 
been  misguided,  and  have  mistaken  violence,  rather 
than  love,  for  an  instrument  of  persuasion." 

Over  at  St.  Peter's,  Father  Gregory,  after  reading 
this  union  pledge :  "My  fidelity  to  the  union  and  my 
duty  to  the  members  thereof  shall  in  no  sense  be  in 
terfered  with  by  any  allegiance  that  I  may  now  or 
hereafter  owe  to  any  other  organization,  social,  po 
litical,  religious,  secret,  or  otherwise "  thundered, 

"No  Catholic  taking  such  an  oath  can  receive  absolu 
tion  from  me  or  any  other  priest." 

Only  two  men  arose  and  walked  out. 

By  these  signs  public  sentiment,  always  fickle,  was 
due  to  veer  and  Walt  Kuhns,  lashing  back  coolly  and 
sagaciously  in  his  paper,  burning  in  his  cause,  threat 
ening  here,  imploring  there,  was  telling  the  strikers 
that  their  cause  was  won.  But  in  truth  it  was  lost 
the  moment  the  public,  moving  along  habitual  chan 
nels — press,  the  church,  and  the  school — transferred 
its  unstable  allegiance. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AT  the  college,  that  other  channel  of  public  opin 
ion,  the  strike  was  taboo.  No  word  concerning 
it  appeared  in  the  college  paper,  though  two  students, 
Weaver  and  Jenkins,  catching  its  meaning,  became 
sympathetic  followers  of  the  working  men.  Presi 
dent  Crandon  once  referred  to  the  "horror  and  vul 
garity  of  violence  and  of  narrow-minded  anarchism." 
Professor  Charles  Henry  Clarke  spoke  on  the  "beauty 
of  self-control,  and  the  ill-fated  French  Revolution"; 
while  Dean  Georgia  Summers  rhapsodized  over  "that 
idyllic  time  when  the  rustic  and  artisan  would  re 
joice  in  their  noble  share  in  the  labor  of  the  land." 

Watching  anxiously,  John  Cosmus  found  that  Iron 
City  considered  the  strike  monotonous.  It  was  not 
so  interesting  as  a  baseball  game.  Nothing  happened. 
There  was  no  violence.  Day  after  day,  the  men 
picketed  the  empty  factories  in  a  grim  effort  to  rally 
flagging  public  attention.  One  by  one,  some  of  the 
workmen  grew  discontented,  and  dropped  off,  moving 
away  to  other  towns  for  work.  But  the  majority 
were  faithful — the  six  hundred  held  true  behind  their 
leader.  Him  Cosmus  found  always  vivid  and  inter 
esting.  As  he  saw  more  and  more  of  Walt  Kuhns,  he 
was  astonished  to  find  him  possessed  of  the  very  quali 
ties  that  made  Ezra  Kimbark  so  attractive.  What 
friends  these  two  vagrants,  lost  to  the  church,  would 
have  been  if  the  gulf  of  class  feeling  had  not  opened 
between  them!  Kuhns  was  everywhere  imparting 

226 


IRON  CITY  227 

his  spirit  to  the  men.  He  implored  them  to  respect 
property  and  to  use  no  violence.  He  strove  to  lift 
the  strike  into  the  abstract  realm  of  principle.  He 
had  confidence  enough  in  this  riff-raff  of  human  life 
to  instruct  them  in  "the  art  of  striking  in  order  to 
focus  public  opinion  on  the  justice  of  their  cause." 
And  he  succeeded!  There  had  been  no  violence  and 
no  destruction  of  property.  Picketing  was  peaceful. 
A  negro,  said  to  be  a  worker,  had  been  beaten  up 
because  the  men  had  learned  that  all  the  former  negro 
workers  were  still  in  Sill's  pay,  waiting  for  the  factory 
to  open.  This  was  the  only  instance  of  violence.  Has- 
kell's  paper  made  much  of  this  assault  of  doubtful 
significance. 

Cosmus  was  scarcely  more  than  a  benevolent  spec 
tator  of  the  struggle.  Once  or  twice  he  contributed 
letters  to  the  "Labor  Defense"  and  brought  disap 
proval  down  upon  his  head.  He  did  not  see  Kuhns 
often  because  Kuhns  was  too  busy.  But  the  glimpses 
he  had  of  the  man  won  him  to  loyalty.  The  labor 
leader  was  no  selfish  demagogue,  but  a  far-seeing, 
fearless,  patient  patriot.  Cosmus  marveled  at  his  pa 
tience,  coolness  and  deep  capacity  for  indignation. 

Inseparably  linked  with  the  strike  in  Cosmus's  mind 
was  the  war.  Both  upheavals — the  stupendous  there 
and  the  miniature  here — were  but  manifestations  of 
the  same  spirit  beneath;  both  represented  destruction 
of  barriers,  and  the  perceptible  union  of  large  masses 
of  men.  Inevitably  the  war  was  to  mean  interna 
tionalism — was  meaning  it,  as  nation  after  nation  in 
alliance  groped  toward  each  other  for  understanding. 
How  was  Iron  City,  then,  ever  going  to  become  a  part 
of  that  glorious  post-bellum  world,  if  it  could  not  ac 
cept  understandingly  mass  movements  at  home? 


228  IRON  CITY 

There  were  the  usual  drawn  faces  of  men,  who 
found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  an  ordeal  severe  be 
yond  their  calculation;  there  were  patient,  sharp- 
tongued,  conservative  women,  eager  for  the  comforts 
that  the  strike  would  bring,  but  hating  the  cost ;  there 
were  children  with  puzzled  faces,  and  aching  bellies; 
there  were  men  made  bitter  by  the  sharp  sense  of  dif 
ference  between  those  who  were  up,  and  those  who 
were  down  and  under;  there  were  men  grown  cynical, 
convinced  that  there  was  no  justice  or  kindness  in  the 
world  and  that  conditions  could  never  be  bettered; 
there  were  men  grown  vengeful  and  cruel,  eager  to 
hurt  and  destroy;  and  there  were  men  ready  to  make 
their  leaders  suffer  for  failure  which  had  come  too 
soon. 

To  this  spectacle  of  woe,  Iron  City  was  indifferent. 
Jealous  of  its  reputation,  interested  only  in  business, 
blind  to  principle,  it  prided  itself  on  the  respectability 
of  the  strike.  It  rejoiced  in  surface  sight. 

Cosmus  saw  one  day  a  little  girl  in  clean  pinafore 
eating  refuse  from  a  neighbor's  garbage  pail.  Here 
was  symbol  enough  of  the  social  order. 

"Here  in  America,  metaphysics  have  fallen  into 
disrepute.  The  science  once  described  as  the  'search 
in  a  dark  room  for  a  black  cat  that  isn't  there'  is  quite 
too  impractical  for  the  modern  world.  Yet,  in  so  far 
as  metaphysics  means  passing  beyond  the  physical, 
seeing  beneath  the  surface,  democracy  rests  upon  it. 
Only  when  men  become  metaphysicists  to  the  extent 
of  seeing  principles  behind  masses,  and  quivering,  pal 
pitant  minds  beneath  externals,  may  democracy  bej 
come  actual." 

As  usual  it  was  Sarah  Blackstone  who  shared  Cos- 
mus's  doubts  and  hopes  during  this  period. 


IRON  CITY  229 

One  day  in  the  third  month  of  the  strike  R.  Sill 
called  up  his  friend,  Senator  Matt  Tyler. 

"Can't  you  come  down,  Matt?" 

"What's  up  now — victory?" 

"Better  than  that — revenge." 

In  a  half-hour  Tyler's  roadster  stood  in  front  of 
the  factory  and  Tyler  was  mopping  his  brow  in  the 
quiet  office  of  the  manufacturer. 

Lighting  a  fresh  cigar,  R.  Sill  took  from  a  strong 
box,  the  key  of  which  hung  to  his  watch  chain,  a  legal- 
looking  document;  he  patted  it  fondly,  and  then  said, 
handing  it  to  his  friend. 

"There — ain't  that  a  beauty?" 

Tyler's  quick  eye  ran  over  the  paper.  Amazement 
shone  in  his  face,  then  admiration,  and  fear.  He 
whistled  increduously. 

"Aren't  you  going  too  far,  Bob?    Be  careful." 

Sill  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  as  he  had  done  when 
he  talked  to  Carl  Morton,  several  weeks  before,  and 
the  same  proud  look  of  power  came  into  his  face. 
But  now  he  was  jubilant. 

"Stand  up,  ye  great  barrister,  and  be  catechized. 
Who  maketh  the  laws  of  the  state?" 

"Public  Opinion." 

"Who  executeth  the  laws  of  the  state  ?" 

"Public  Opinion." 

"Of  course,  and  we  have  carefully  prepared  Public 
Opinion  for  Judge  Dunbar's  injunction.  Read  it." 

Senator  Tyler  began  to  read.  The  injunction,  is 
sued  by  Judge  Dunbar,  of  the  Circuit  Court,  named 
Walt  Kuhns,  Jerry  Mulvaney,  Mary  Levinsky  and 
Wilson  Grover.  The  plaintiff  was  designated  as  R. 
Sill  and  Son.  There  were  seven  clauses,  and  as  the 


230  IRON  CITY 

Senator  read  them,  Sill  exultingly  translated  them  into 
the  concrete. 

"From  at  any  time,  in  any  manner,  or  at  any  place 
interfering  or  meddling  with  any  persons  whomsoever 
who  may  desire  to  enter  into  the  employ  of  the  plain 
tiff,  R.  Sill  and  Son." 

"That's  for  Mulvaney  and  his  pickets." 

"From  threatening  or  coercing " 

"That's  for  the  low-down  guy  who  beat  the  nigger." 

"From  gathering  in  bodies,  or  coercing  or  accost 
ing " 

"That's  for  Wilson  Grover,  and  his  anarchists " 

"From  publishing  or  causing  to  be  published " 

"That's  for  Kuhns." 

"From  writing  or  distributing " 

"That's  for  that  Cosmus." 

"From  boycotting " 

"That's  for  that  he-woman." 

"From  committing  any  acts  of  which  the  plaintiff, 
R.  Sill  and  Son,  complains." 

"That  for  the  whole  gang — no  matter  what  they 
do.  What  do  you  think,  Tyler — ain't  she  a  beauty? 
Just  about  air-tight.  Eh?" 

Senator  Tyler  wrinkled  his  regal  nose  and  frowned 
disconcertingly. 

"Yes,  if  you  don't  care  what  you  do.  Extremes 
usually  act  as  boomerangs.  You'd  better  get  Dunbar 
to  ease  it  up  a  bit.  That's  my  advice." 

Sill  put  the  injunction  carefully  back  in  the  box, 
and  the  box  into  the  safe.  Then  he  turned  and  faced 
Tyler. 

"Oh,  well,  Matt,  you  see  I'm  not  running  for  the 
Senate  or  anything,  and  I  guess  that'll  have  to  stand 
as  it  is." 


IRON  CITY  231 

"When  do  you  spring  it?" 

"At  the  psychological  moment." 

But  Tyler,  on  his  way  home,  still  shook  his  head 
and  muttered, 

"That's  going  too  far,  quite  too  far."  Perhaps 
the  Senator  had  babbled  so  long  about  the  inalienable 
rights  of  the  people  that  he  had  come  to  believe  in 
them. 

*  *  s(e  s|e  *  :{= 

When  John  Cosmus  came  around  the  corner  ap 
proaching  the  factory,  he  heard  laughter — epic  laugh 
ter — the  great  tittering  of  a  good-natured  crowd, 
ending  in  ragged  calls  and  bickerings.  As  he  drew 
nearer,  he  found  instead  of  a  few  pickets — the  quota 
of  strikers  in  the  past — a  large  irregular  patch  of 
men,  gaunt  and  severe.  They  stood  carelessly  about 
before  the  gate  of  R.  Sill  and  Son's  plant,  laughing 
in  derision.  In  a  few  minutes,  as  he  joined  the  men 
on  the  outskirts,  he  discerned  Kuhns  among  the  men, 
and  a  few  women  and  children  hanging  on  the  edge  of 
the  crowd.  Standing  in  front  of  the  gate  was  a  man 
who,  one  could  see  at  a  glance,  by  clothes  and  man 
ner,  was  not  of  the  strikers.  He  was  evidently  the 
object  of  the  laughter,  and  evidently  between  him  and 
the  crowd  was  passing  much  talk  and  banter. 

He  was  saying, 

"I  can  lick  any  ten  of  you." 

Replies  came  thick  and  fast  from  the  crowd. 

"Lick  Sill's  boots." 

"Who  let  you  out?" 

"Dust  off  your  think-tank!" 

"You've  got  dirt  in  your  carburetor!" 

The  man  answered. 

"If  any  of  you  think  you  can  keep  me  from  work, 


232  IRON  CITY 

step  up  like  a  man,  and  try  it.    I  can  lick  seventy-five 
of  ye,  fed  up  on  bad  whiskey." 

To  this  more  laughter.  Cosmus  was  surprised  at 
the  good  humor  of  the  crowd — its  discipline.  He 
knew  that  Kuhns  must  be  proud  of  these  men,  his 
disciples  of  non-resistance.  Soon  John  had  the  satis 
faction  of  seeing  the  man  pass  into  the  factory. 
Thinking  the  incident  closed,  and  seeing  Jenkins  and 
Weaver  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  he  was  ap 
proaching  them,  when  he  heard  that  peculiar  raucous 
dissonance,  somewhere  between  a  murmur  and  a 
shriek,  which  issues  from  a  crowd  in  anger.  It  was 
a  terrible  noise,  and  he  saw,  as  he  turned,  the  men, 
like  black  ants,  coalesce  by  instinct  to  form  a  human 
battering  ram.  What  had  happened?  He  mounted  a 
stone,  and  leaped  to  a  fence,  holding  to  a  branch  of 
an  overhanging  tree,  to  steady  himself,  and  looked. 

His  limbs  trembled  beneath  him  as  the  crowd,  fast 
taking  on  the  beastly  exterior  of  the  mob,  was  flowing 
toward  the  factory  gate.  Cosmus  saw  that  a  man — a 
much  larger  man — in  the  posture  of  challenge  and 
defense,  had  taken  the  place  of  the  first  decoy.  It 
was  evidently  his  presence  that  had  worked  the  change 
in  the  strikers. 

Cosmus  saw  Kuhns,  too,  rush  from  the  side  to  in 
tercept  the  crowd,  motioning  them  back  like  a  traffic 
policeman.  There  were  shouts, 

"Get  him !  Get  Daggett !  Get  the  skunk !"  mingled 
with  the  threatening  roar  of  mad  men;  the  crowd  en 
veloped  Kuhns,  passed  on  and  stormed  the  gate.  The 
lone  aggressor  waited  to  take  one  lunge  at  the  fore 
most  assailant,  then  slipped  into  the  safe  precincts  of 
the  yard.  Stones  began  to  fly.  Curses,  maledictions, 
the  terrible  moody  buzz  of  mob  anger  and  impotence, 


IRON  CITY  233 

beat  in  Cosmus's  ears.  He  saw  futile  battering  with 
bare  hands  against  barred  doors.  Then  the  gate  of 
the  factory  opened  and  the  snouts  of  two  fire  hoses 
emerged;  from  them  heavy  streams  of  water  began  to 
pour.  Cosmus  was  dazed.  The  water  was  hot.  Steam 
arose  as  it  met  the  air.  Strikers  were  rolling  on  the 
ground,  shrieking  and  cursing.  Women  and  children 
screamed;  he  saw  Kuhns  run  back  and  forth  before 
the  wavering  line  of  men,  as  if  to  push  them  into  the 
street  by  sheer  physical  force.  But  the  men  did  not 
heed.  Twice  they  charged  the  gate  in  the  face  of 
the  steam,  and  then  tumbled  shrieking  to  the  pave 
ment.  Then  seizing  stones  and  sticks,  they  hurled 
volley  after  volley,  in  impotent  anger  at  the  conquering 
foes.  The  water  never  failed — two  streams  of  siz 
zling  rain,  cut  a  circle  about  the  factory  gate  three 
hundred  feet  back,  ringed  around  by  murmuring', 
threatening  men;  Walt  Kuhns  stood  just  without  the 
fluid  shot,  facing  the  crowd. 

Suddenly  the  water  ceased.  Then  Cosmus  saw  the 
women  and  children  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  dash 
to  the  curb,  and  where  they  parted,  running,  he  saw 
up  the  street,  an  oncoming  automobile,  at  full  speed, 
swaying  back  and  forth  almost  from  curb  to  curb. 
It  had  set  up  a  loud  honking,  but  nevertheless  it  came 
on,  deliberately,  straight  for  the  factory  gate;  pre 
empting  the  street  as  its  right.  It  was  a  blind  thing, 
for  it  narrowly  missed  a  child  as  it  swung  on  two 
wheels  around  the  short  corner  and  bore  down  upon 
the  crowd  of  men.  By  magic  the  crowd  parted,  and 
Cosmus  was  thanking  God  that  the  way  was  so  easily 
cleared,  when  something  happened.  The  water  had 
wet  the  street.  The  wheels  skidded,  the  car  leaped 


234  IRON  CITY 

a  tangent  straight  for  the  mass  of  men,  who  scatter 
ing,  scampering,  parted  again. 

Another  cry  from  the  crowd!  This  time  of  pity 
and  dismay.  The  machine  seemed  to  swerve  and  then 
stopped  tremblingly,  glued  to  the  pavement  by  heavy 
brakes.  Cosmus  jumped  down  and  ran  where  the 
crowd  was  thickest;  elbowing  through,  his  breath  both 
ering  him,  his  imagination  over-wrought.  Expect 
ing  to  see  death,  he  at  last  fought  his  way  to  the 
machine.  The  automobile  was  clogged  by  angry 
strikers.  White  and  distraught,  Raymond  Sill  sat 
behind  the  wheel.  In  the  arms  of  two  men  was  the 
limp  form  of  Walt  Kuhns,  blood  running  from  a  still 
mouth. 

Before  Cosmus  could,  show  pity  or  resentment, 
more  machines  appeared,  and  officers  pushed  men  and 
women,  now  thoroughly  cowed,  back  to  the  pave 
ment.  The  sheriff  took  command  and  howled  orders. 

"Line  up,  Mulvaney;  line  up,  Kuhns;"  and  then, 
paying  not  the  least  attention  to  the  wounded  leader, 
the  sheriff  served  his  injunctions  and  made  arrests. 

Suddenly  Cosmus  found  his  tongue,  in  a  high  and 
squawky  voice, — he  cried, 

"My  God — such  law;  don't  arrest  Kuhns.  There's 
your  man — he's  a  murderer."  And  he  found  himself 
the  center  of  an  excited  throng,  for  he  was  shaking 
his  finger  in  the  white  face  of  old  Sill's  son. 

Without  a  word  the  sheriff  motioned  the  strikers 
down  off  the  big  Stutz,  muttering  something  to  Ray 
mond  about  "getting  out  of  here."  Raymond,  still 
white  and  trembling,  slowly  drove  the  car  toward  the 
factory  gate,  which  opened  as  if  by  magic  to  receive 
him.  Contemptuously,  bitterly,  silently,  the  crowd  let 
him  go. 


IRON  CITY  235 

Awesome  stillness  settled  down  over  the  street  At 
the  summons  of  a  whistle  a  police  ambulance,  the  one 
which  had  once  before  carried  Walt  Kuhns,  nosed  its 
bleak,  black  way  into  the  crowd. 

"Officer,  I  protest,"  Cosmus  said,  his  voice  still 
husky.  "This  man  is  not  fit  for  the  police  station." 

"Who  said  he  was?"  the  sheriff  answered  gruffly  j 
then  turning  to  the  driver  he  directed,  "To  the  Emer 
gency  Hospital." 

The  limp  form  of  Kuhns  was  lifted  not  untenderly 
into  the  ambulance.  Cosmus  turned  away,  sick  with 
the  pity  of  it  all.  He  saw  the  women,  with  aprons 
at  their  eyes,  little  children  clutching  frantically  at 
their  mothers'  skirts,  men  cowed  and  sullen.  Sud 
denly  somewhere  in  the  factory,  a  whistle  began  to 
blow — shrill  and  long,  and  there  was  the  sound  of 
revolving  wheels.  Sill  had  won.  Industry — the 
world's  business — had  been  resumed.  "That  is  indus 
try's  voice,"  thought  Cosmus.  "Shrill,  superior,  soul 
less.  And  these  men  are  soulless,  too." 

He  saw  the  strikers  dispersing  wearily,  and  as  he 
turned,  at  the  end  of  the  street  beckoning,  there  was 
the  River  of  Wires  reaching  toward  the  cities  and  be 
yond. 

A  hand  on  his  shoulder  brought  Cosmus  to  the 
realization  that  the  student  Weaver  was  trying  to 
say  something  to  him. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  with  me,  Professor,  to  the 
Iron  Works — there's  more  trouble  down  there,  they 
say." 

"Where?" 

"At  Crandon  Hill  Iron  Works." 

That  brought  Cosmus  up  with  a  jerk.     Sarah! 


236  IRON  CITY 

Riot !  The  two  students  saw  the  professor  dash  mad 
ly  after  a  jitney,  relieve  the  man  at  the  wheel,  after 
emptying  his  own  pockets  of  coin,  and  drive  off  at  a 
speed  something  in  excess  of  all  limits. 

Cosmus  lurching  back  and  forth  in  the  unsteady 
seat,  had  time  to  curse  all  strikes  and  violence — that 
touched  the  innocent;  and  he  received  at  the  same 
time  the  blows  of  his  own  merciless  intellect  as  it 
saw  and  measured  the  law  of  compensation.  "That's 
what  you  get,"  intellect  was  saying,  "for  preaching 
strikes;  the  woman  you  think  the  most  of  shall  pay." 

He  drove  the  car  on  furiously.  Once  he  saw  a  traf 
fic  man,  gesticulating  wildly,  but  it  did  not  occur  to 
him  that  it  might  be  he  whom  the  policeman  wished 
to  stop,  until  he  had  left  the  blue-coat,  semaphoring 
foolishly  far  behind. 

The  Crandon  Hill  Iron  Works  were  built  close  to 
the  pavement  at  the  intersection  of  Fourth  Avenue 
and  Fifth  Street,  and  as  Cosmus  wheeled  around  the 
corner  he  came  suddenly  upon  the  crowd,  beating  at 
Boyne's  windows  and  doors.  He  saw  at  once  the  fu 
tility  of  trying  to  press  through  that  throng,  and 
turned  away  from  the  shouting  mob,  up  a  side  street. 
He  sped  off  to  the  left  upon  the  railroad  switch  track, 
that  cut  the  Iron  Works  in  two.  Within  the  factory's 
great  yard,  he  found  no  manifestation  of  excitement. 
The  place  was  still.  No  guard  was  at  the  wide  door 
of  the  foundry  to  bar  its  entrance,  and  he  threaded 
his  way  through  the  deserted  shop,  not  without  a  sense 
of  the  pathos  of  abandoned  and  disused  things  which 
the  stale  coal-scents  invoked.  He  managed  finally  to 
come  out  into  a  narrow  dark  passageway,  that  opened 
upon  the  wide  marble  corridor,  where  mahogany  doors 


IRON  CITY  237 

glistened.  Here  Cosmus  was  upon  familiar  ground, 
and  he  had  no  trouble  in  finding  the  luxurious  offices 
of  the  president,  where  Sarah  worked. 

He  threw  open  the  wide  door,  the  guttural  com 
plaints  of  the  strikers,  cruel,  soulless,  and  urgent,  came 
in  through  the  broken  windows  from  the  street.  Was 
the  office  empty!  Undisturbed,  save  for  bits  of  shat 
tered  glass,  and  scattered  stones  and  cans,  the  large 
room  had  never  seemed  more  attractive;  and  even  in 
the  midst  of  his  excitement  Cosmus  felt  break  over 
him,  surge  after  surge  of  tender  feeling,  and  welling 
memories  of  Sarah.  The  great  office — throne  of  might 
and  injustice — meant  to  him  only  her!  It  was  the 
place  where  Sarah  worked. 

It  was  irony  that  he  saw  Boyne  first, — a  crumpled 
figure  caught  between  the  brick  jamb  and  the  half- 
closed  French  window  that  opened  upon  the  narrow 
portico  overhanging  the  street ; — Boyne's  head  dangled 
sickeningly  toward  the  floor,  where  black  blood  had 
clotted.  Cosmus  glanced  away,  to  see  Sarah  lying 
clear  and  beautiful  behind  the  desk.  As  he  bent  over 
her,  he  noticed  an  ugly,  discolored  bruise  above  her 
right  eye.  But  for  that,  she  seemed  asleep!  Thank 
God!  And  comfortable. 

Cosmus  turned  around  quickly,  answering  impulse, 
and  lifted  Boyne  clear  of  discomfiture,  which  though 
only  apparent,  nevertheless  was  so  pathetic.  It  eased 
him  to  see  the  limp  figure  lying  straight  and  still. 
"He  must  be  dead — he  is  so  limp,"  he  thought. 

As  he  did  so  the  mob  beneath,  as  if  detecting  the 
movement  at  the  window,  set  up  a  swelling  howl  of 
anger.  For  a  moment,  something  like  fear  and  hatred 
beat  at  Cosmus's  heart.  He  hesitated.  Some  impulse 


238  IRON  CITY 

drove  him  toward  the  portico  to  thrust  out  at  that  vio 
lent  thing  in  the  streets. 

Then,  turning  away,  he  lifted  Sarah  in  his  arms 
and  lurched  into  the  hall.  She  was  heavy  for  him  and 
he  staggered  but  he  knew  infinite  satisfaction  in  that 
moment.  Beneath  excitement,  conflicting  ideas,  phys 
ical  exertion,  he  was  aware  of  the  sweet  appeal  of  her 
person.  Saddened,  exultant,  he  staggered  down  the 
long  hall,  into  the  passage  way,  and  threaded  the  maze 
of  deserted  walks  of  the  foundry  to  the  yard,  where 
the  Ford  still  panted.  He  lifted  her  in,  started  ab 
ruptly,  stalled  his  engine,  and  pushed  futilely  at  the 
self-starter.  Then  pillowing  her  tenderly  with  his 
over-coat,  which  he  stripped  off,  he  whirled  the  engine 
into  action,  jumped  in,  backed  daringly  over  the  tracks, 
and  wound  his  way  out  of  the  yards  again.  Soon  they 
were  in  the  street,  and  Cosmus  dashed  off  through  an 
alley  into  Jenkins  Street,  now  empty,  toward  home. 

In  her  own  room,  under  the  wise  administration 
of  the  landlady,  Sarah  opened  her  eyes.  There  was 
no  wonderment — only  weariness  and  pain  in  that 
look,  Cosmus  thought.  But  she  smiled,  too,  up  at  him. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said,  "it  was  you  who  came?" 

They  made  her  comfortable. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  she  said,  "when  the  men  attacked, 
Boyne  and  I  rushed  to  the  window.  I  think  they  shot 
him,  and  a  stone  or  something  hit  me,"  her  lips  trem 
bled. 

"Oh,  John,  I  never  want  to  see  another  strike 
again." 

That  night,  with  Sarah  recovered,  Cosmus  on  his 
way  to  the  hospital  to  see  Walt  Kuhns,  saw  an  extra 
Republic-Despatch.  Black  lines  flared  across  the  page. 


IRON  CITY  239 

JUDGE  DUNBAR  PUTS  END 

TO  REIGN  OF  TERROR 


Serves  Injunction  on  Violent  Mob 
Outraging  Public  Decency 


ONE  STRIKER  SERIOUSLY  INJURED  IN  FRACAS— MAY  DIE 


Boyne,  President  Crandon   Hill   Iron  Works, 
Shot,  but  Will  Recover. 


STRIKE  REGIME  OVER:  PUBLIC  REJOICES! 

Cosmus  read;  paused  and  wondered.  So  Walt 
Kuhns  pays. 

How  the  city  streets  swarmed!  and  he  heard  the 
sound  of  careless  laughter! 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ONE  evening  soon  after  the  ending  of  the  strike 
Raymond  came  home  from  the  factory  by  foot. 
He  was  disturbed.  He  knew  that  Margaret  had  re 
cently  seen  his  father,  and  that  she  had  made  a  plea 
for  Mr.  Sill  to  use  his  influence  to  keep  President 
Hugh  Crandon  from  discharging  Cosmus  for  his  part 
in  the  strike,  and  that,  strangely  enough,  she  had  suc 
ceeded.  He  was  aware  that  she  had  been  impertinent 
— brazen  his  father  had  characterized  her — and  he  had 
concluded  that  Margaret  must  have  threatened  to  ex 
pose  him  publicly.  He  had  received,  too,  a  note  from 
her  saying  that  if  he  did  not  take  her  to  the  dance  at 
the  Country  Club  she  would  come  alone  and  "make  a 
scene."  These  facts  were  unpleasant,  but  they  did  not 
account  entirely  for  the  deep  sense  of  foreboding 
which  he  carried  home  with  him  that  night.  There 
was  something  profound  and  ominous  in  the  gloom 
which  enveloped  him — something  beyond  his  mind 
to  control.  And  he  had  not  ridden  home;  in  fact  he 
had  not  ridden  in  a  car  since — since  the  ending  of 
the  strike.  Somehow  he  could  not  go  near  the  big 
Stutz.  It  made  his  nerves  jumpy.  He  did  not  go  in 
to  dinner,  but  went  straight  to  his  room,  where  his 
mother  found  him  soon  after. 

"Son  boy,"  she  said,  "are  you  ill?" 

"No,  Mother.     Just  plagued  tired." 

"Would  you  like  a  cup  of  tea?" 
240 


IRON  CITY  241 

"No,  Mother.  It  keeps  me  awake.  I  guess  that's 
what  does  it,"  and  he  tried  to  speak  naturally. 

"You're  working  too  hard,"  his  mother  said  anx 
iously. 

"Yes,  Mother." 

With  a  deprecating  gesture  of  impatience,  his 
another  moved  toward  the  door.  Before  turning  the 
knob,  she  paused  and  said, 

"Hazel  said  she  would  go  to  the  club  dance  with 
you." 

"I  am  glad,  Mother." 

When  she  was  gone,  Raymond  threw  off  coat  and 
collar,  sank  into  a  great  chair,  and  smoked  cigarette 
after  cigarette.  At  10 130  he  went  to  bed. 

He  awoke  with  a  clear  mind ;  through  the  open  win 
dow  came  the  sound  of  singers  trailing  home  through 
the  misty  night;  a  lively  wind  was  stirring  in  the 
trees,  and  when  the  college  clock  struck  some  minutes 
later,  he  counted,  "One,  two,  three" — only  three  hours 
to  lie  awake,  he  thought. 

"Four,  five" — and  so  on  to  twelve  o'clock.  Then 
he  remembered  what  had  awakened  him  so  soon.  It 
was  a  dream.  He  was  in  a  court-room  thronged  with 
familiar  faces.  He  saw  them  from  the  prisoner's 
box.  In  front  of  the  Judge's  bench  was  a  black  cof 
fin.  He  was  being  arraigned  by  some  one  whom  he 
thought  was  Cosmus,  but  when  he  looked  up — there 
was  Margaret,  clad  in  black  crying  "murderer,  mur 
derer."  The  sound  of  that  awful  word  had  wakened 
him. 

He  shivered  under  the  covers.  The  wind  crashing 
among  the  autumnal  trees  came  to  him  freighted  with 
notes  profoundly  hostile.  Nature  seemed  some  sar 
donic  machine,  and  in  the  rhythmic  pause  of  the  wind, 


242  IRON  CITY 

he  heard  the  clang  of  the  machine  of  his  father's 
creation  on  the  other  side  of  the  town — and  he  won 
dered  about  the  men  working  there.  It  would  be  al 
most  good,  he  thought,  to  be  there  with  them — to- 
night  ! 

He  tried  to  bring  his  mind  around  to  the  point  of 
realization  that  the  world  outside,  the  factory  yonder, 
the  wind  clattering  dolefully  in  the  trees,  his  room 
here  filled  with  shadows,  were  just  the  same  as  they 
were  by  day.  But  he  could  not.  They  were  not  the 
same.  By  day  the  world  was  open ;  the  houses  of  the 
town,  the  people,  enveloped  him  in  friendliness.  Now 
the  night,  save  for  the  din  of  the  factory,  shut  them 
out.  He  was  alone. 

As  one  who  clambers  fearfully  along  a  crumbling 
edge  for  one  peep  into  the  troubled  depths  of  a  vol 
cano,  Raymond  peered  into  himself.  What  he  found 
there  made  him  lie  sleepless,  and  stare  through  fear 
at  the  wall  of  darkness  above  him.  .  .  . 

About  four,  before  he  fell  asleep,  he  had  resolved 
to  go  to  Margaret  and  offer  some  kind  of  reparation. 
...  But  Walt  Kuhns  ? 

When  Margaret  Morton  arrived  at  the  Country 
Club  on  the  trolley  alone,  she  found  the  great  stone 
house  aglare.  The  last  party  of  the  season  in  late 
October  was  often  the  gayest,  and  to-night  Iron  City, 
as  if  feeling  released  from  the  bondage  of  the  strike, 
had  gathered  as  if  by  agreement,  in  a  finale  of  social 
splendor.  A  long  line  of  glistening  limousines,  open 
cars  of  every  type  and  model,  including  Fords,  de 
noted  something  of  the  size  and  catholicity  of  the 
crowd. 

Already  the  orchestra  was  crashing  out  a  two-step 
in  syncopation.  Rag-time  from  its  barbaric  lairs  in 


IRON  CITY  243 

South  America,  for  the  first  time,  seemed  out  of  place 
to  Margaret.  Outside  the  night  was  still,  save  for 
complaining  leaves,  rustling  dryly  along  upon  (the 
heavy  current  of  damp  winds.  As  she  went  up  the 
path,  past  the  leaden  lagoon  now  smeared  with  blurred 
images  of  vari-colored  lanterns  from  the  windows, 
she  shuddered.  The  pool  looked  very  cold  and  very 
deep. 

"I  hope  they  have  a  fire,"  she  thought. 

When  she  entered  she  saw  that  logs  were  crackling 
in  the  two  big  fireplaces  in  the  ball-room;  she  paused 
in  the  hall  a  moment,  sweeping  the  room  from  length 
to  length,  letting  her  glance  rest  on  jeweled  and  bril 
liantly  gowned  women,  and  soberly  attired  men.  Then 
she  saw  Raymond  with  Hazel  Tyler.  An  ineffable 
sense  of  loss,  the  vanishing  of  youth  and  the  staleness 
of  the  world  cut  through  her  icy  calm.  She  trem 
bled;  tears  came,  and  she  set  her  lips  to  keep  back 
sobs.  Too  soon  the  fullness  of  life  had  flown.  In 
that  look — cut  off  as  she  was  from  all  pleasure  that 
she  loved — Margaret  realized  remotely  the  staggering 
price  one  pays  who  precociously  yields  herself  to  the 
urge  of  sex. 

She  did  not  go  to  the  ladies's  retiring  room.  She 
found,  instead,  as  she  had  hoped,  the  library  unoccu 
pied.  No  fire  had  been  kindled  in  the  narrow  grate, 
but  she  did  not  hesitate  to  enter.  She  kept  her  heavy 
cloak  muffled  around  her,  and  without  flashing  on  the 
lamp,  sank  down  in  the  Morris  chair,  just  outside 
the  zone  of  light  cut  by  the  chandelier  in  the  hall. 
Here  the  blatant  music,  and  the  ting-tong  of  merry 
mingled  voices  came  to  her,  and  here  she  had  time  to 
think. 

In  the  last  months,  during  which  Iron  City  had 


244  IRON 

been  convulsed  with  the  strike,  Margaret  had  passed 
into  a  kind  of  sublimation  of  grief.  Save  for  spas 
modic  wildness,  such  as  her  championing  of  John 
Cosmus  before  R.  Sill,  much  of  her  old  gayety  of 
manner  had  returned.  But  it  was  the  gayety  of  tragic 
exultation.  In  the  perception  of  a  solution  to  her 
problem,  she  had  become  elated  but  morbid.  To 
herself,  she  seemed  two  persons — one  bitterly  suffer 
ing,  the  other  a  solicitous  witness  of  grief.  All  her 
acts  were  dramatic.  It  was  this  theatrical  sense  which 
had  elements  of  danger,  for  it  would  sustain  her  in 
participating  in  roles  of  even  tragic  outcome  to  her 
self. 

In  the  few  minutes  in  which  she  sat  alone  in  the 
cold  room  of  the  club,  she  thought  bitterly  of  her 
father.  Carl  Morton  had  not  weathered  the  storm; 
he  sat  at  home  even  now,  feeble  and  old,  plunged  fu- 
tilely  in  treatises  on  education.  Would  he  never  take 
her  back  again?  It  was  the  look  of  mute  appeal  in 
his  eyes — puzzled,  searching,  dog-like — that  gave  her 
nerves.  He  ought  not  to  look  that  way!  He  ought 
not  to  take  on  so!  He  never  could  see  things  as  he 
ought  to. 

And  Raymond? 

She  had  come  to  see  Raymond;  she  must  find  a 
maid  and  send  for  him.  She  arose,  and  stepped  into 
the  hall.  At  the  other  end,  she  saw  him  alone  peering 
about  as  if  looking  for  some  one.  She  beckoned  and 
he  came  towards  her. 

"I  was  looking  for  you,  Mag;  I  have  come  to  take 
you  out  of  this."  The  words  were  decisive,  prompted 
by  deep  feeling,  but  it  was  not  given  these  two  thus 
to  recover  so  easily  by  a  phrase  the  alluring  rapturous 
world  which  they  had  lost,  for  Margaret  misunder- 


IRON  CITY  245 

stood.  Highly  strung  as  she  was,  she  thought  it  was 
some  scheme  of  his  to  get  her  out  of  the  way  that 
evening. 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't,"  she  answered.  "I  am  going 
to  stay.  And  what  is  more  you  are  going  to  dance 
with  me." 

She  had  raised  her  voice  in  excitement,  and  during 
a  lull  in  the  music  and  dancing  below,  it  sounded  un 
natural  and  too  loud.  He  glanced  nervously  around, 
and  she,  seeing  his  perturbation,  thought  that  her  sus 
picions  were  confirmed.  Raymond  had  come  up  to 
intercept  her,  to  keep  her  away  from  the  ball-room. 

"Come  in  here,"  she  said,  "if  you  are  ashamed  to 
be  with  me." 

Ignoring  her  tone,  he  followed  her  back  into  the 
library;  she  shut  the  door  behind  them,  and  after 
fumbling  at  the  curtain  at  the  window,  switched  on 
the  light.  There  were  cigar  stubs  and  ashes  on  the 
table — and  the  room  looked  cold  and  uninviting.  Ray 
mond  snatched  up  the  waste  basket,  emptied  its  con 
tents  into  the  grate,  throwing  in  a  few  magazines  for 
good  measure,  and  struck  a  match.  She  watched  him 
narrowly.  How  wasteful  he  was;  the  fire  gave  out 
only  a  little  heat  and  a  sickly  light.  She  coughed; 
and  he  glanced  at  her  apprehensively. 

"How  have  you  been?"  he  demanded.    "Sick  any?" 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction  shone  in  her  face.  He  was 
concerned  about  her  then. 

"I've  been  in  bed  a  lot,"  she  answered. 

"Well  enough  to  travel?" 

"That  depends  on  where." 

"Anywhere,"  he  continued,  "away  from  Iron  City. 
I  hate  it.  I  keep  the  plane  out  here,  you  know.  Here 
at  the  County  Club  there  is  a  fine  field  for  landing. 


246  IRON  CITY 

We'll  find  some  place,  Mag.  You  don't  know  how 
sick  and  tired  I  am  of  this  efficiency  business  Dad  gave 
me,  and  of  this  Walt  Kuhns  mess." 

He  spoke  without  passion,  mechanically,  and  his 
words  and  tone  made  Margaret  almost  pity  him.  He 
did  not  seem  very  much  like  a  lover.  But  when  she 
answered,  she  was  precipitate. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  away,  Ray.  I  won't  go.  You're 
ashamed  of  me.  You  know  it.  We  ought  to  stay  here 
together,  be  down  there  dancing,  happy  like  the 
others." 

He  stretched  out  his  hands  toward  the  flimsy  ashes 
in  the  fireplace  as  if  for  warmth,  then  turned  toward 
her,  his  eyes  awake,  and  interested. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  sick  and  couldn't." 

"Maybe  you  did  and  maybe  you  didn't.  You  could 
have  come  to  see  me,  couldn't  you?" 

His  eyes  shifted. 

"If  you'll  go  with  me,  Mag,  I'll  make  it  all  up." 

"But  you  can't  make  it  up — that  way.  There's  only 
one  way, — to  take  me  down  there." 

"But  you  can't  go  when  you're  sick." 

"But  I  am  not  sick;  I'm  just  like  I  was." 

He  turned  to  her  eagerly. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

She  said  again  emphatically, 

"Like — I — always — was." 

He  understood,  and  suddenly  he  felt  warmly  happy, 
happier  than  he  had  been  for  months.  Life,  after  all, 
was  as  it  ought  to  be ;  he  did  not  need  to  pay  for  that 
blind  moment  in  the  church.  There  were  no  conse 
quences  to  be  met.  The  great  God  Law  had  slipped 
its  orbit.  There  was  justice  in  the  world  at  last.  His 
manner  changed.  He  arose  and  stood  leaning  against 


IRON  CITY  247 

the  mantle,  something  of  his  old  dashing  spirit  re 
turned. 

Before  he  spoke,  Margaret  saw  the  change  in  him 
and  began  to  cry.  "There  is  nothing  to  cry  about, 

Mag.  We're  well  out  of  it  now,  and "  Without 

finishing,  he  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  couch,  and 
drew  her  close  to  him. 

She  pushed  him  away  questioningly,  searching  his 
face. 

"Don't,"  she  said. 

The  one  thing  which  had  sustained  her  for  weeks — • 
had  eluded  her  in  the  moment  of  her  need.  The  dra 
matic  in  this  scene  with  Ray  had  vanished.  He,  not 
she,  was  playing  the  grand  role — and  going  free.  She 
wiped  her  eyes  clear  of  tears,  and  said  very  simply, 

"Ray,  I  have  decided  to  kill  myself  unless  you  own 
me  before  the  others." 

She  had  rehearsed  those  words  many  times  in  the 
last  few  weeks,  nevertheless  they  came  spontaneously 
now.  They  sprang  out  at  him  with  vivid  force,  and 
they  seemed  alive  to  Margaret,  too.  It  was  as  if 
some  inner  urge  had  uttered  itself  through  them.  She 
saw  Raymond  start,  look  queerly  at  her,  and  tremble. 

"You  just  couldn't  be  such  a  fool,  Mag.  You 
were  as  much  to  blame  as  I,  and  you  have  not  suffered 
more." 

"Look  at  me,  Ray." 

She  waited  until  his  eyes  met  hers. 

"Now  do*  I  look  as  if  I  meant  it?" 

"You  couldn't  be  such  a  fool,"  he  reiterated  spirit 
lessly,  his  face  white  and  drawn,  his  whole  frame 
trembling;  he  was  thinking  of  the  last  time  he  had 
seen  Walt  Kuhns. 

Margaret   did   not  enjoy   her   triumph;    she   had 


248  IRON  CITY 

thought  she  would.  In  her  the  sense  of  loss  renewed 
itself.  Could  the  world  ever  again  be  as  it  was? 

Suddenly  Raymond  turned  on  her  meanly. 

"You  fool,  you'd  like  to  make  me  a  murderer,  too, 
like  that  God  damn  Professor  Cosmus." 

"Oh,  Ray!" 

They  could  hear  the  music  of  the  dance  and  feel 
the  timbers  of  the  whole  house  swing  in  rhythm  to 
the  lilting  feet.  But  something  had  whisked  them 
afar  off  from  all  that  merriment. 

After  a  moment,  Ray  said, 

"Well,  damn  it,  why  don't  we  go  down?" 

He  arose  and  stood  facing  her. 

She  saw  him  in  that  moment  in  a  new  light — the 
bullet  head,  the  narrow  eyes,  the  well-kept  mustache, 
the  figure  somewhat  squat — all  seemed  hideous — repul 
sive  as  passion  always  is.  Then  she  knew  that  it 
wasn't  Ray  that  she  wanted.  He  did  not  cure  the  in 
sistent  sense  of  loss.  She  began  to  understand  that  it 
was  an  inner  rather  than  an  outer  loss  and  must  be  a 
permanent  one.  What  was  she  going  to  do  now? 
What  if  he  did  consent  to  go  down  with  her — even 
to  live  with  her,  could  she  be  happy  ?  It  was  not  Ray 
that  she  wanted,  and  the  realization  left  her  weak  and 
distraught. 

She  arose  quietly,  and  drew  her  cloak  about  her 
tightly, 

"No,  I'm  not  going  down.    You  go,  Ray." 

"Come  to  your  senses,  have  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply.     "Go." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  drew  out  a  silver  case, 
selected  a  cigarette  and  jabbed  it  fiercely  between  his 
lips.  He  did  not  light  it.  With  the  bearing  of  one 
who  is  well  rid  of  a  bad  situation,  he  strode  out. 


IRON  CITY  249 

Margaret  stood  for  a  moment  thoughtfully,  then 
she  turned  out  the  light.  Going  to  the  French  win 
dow,  she  unloosed  the  clasp,  and  stepped  out  on  the 
balcony.  The  night  was  dull  and  dark,  and  the  lagoon, 
save  for  splashes  of  color,  seemed  as  leaden  and  un 
fathomable  as  ever.  She  followed  the  balcony  around 
to  the  steps  that  led  to  the  ground  on  to  the  tennis 
court.  Then  she  went  hurriedly  and  purposefully 
through  the  wet  grass,  brushing  the  sere  bushes  as  she 
passed,  to  a  solitary  bench  by  the  water.  Here  she 
sank  down  gratefully.  The  sky  had  opened,  and  a 
star  or  two,  and  a  crooked  moon  showed  themselves. 
Afar  off  as  in  a  daze,  she  heard  the  clang  of  brass, 
the  clinkle  of  strings  and  the  creak  of  floors  under 
swinging  feet. 

She  was  honestly  trying  to  understand  the  situa 
tion;  she  was  groping  as  well  as  she  might  with  her 
imperfect  equipment,  toward  a  solution  of  this 
dilemma  in  her  young  life.  Hurried  into  maturity 
by  precocious  passion,  she  was  confused  by  the  unex 
pected  paths  that  distended  from  passion's  center.  She 
could  not  choose. 

There  was  her  father; — he  had  once  so  loved  her. 
That  congenital  affinity  which  from  baby-hood  seemed 
to  unite  them,  had  suddenly  snapped  and  left  them 
groping.  The  great  outer  world  of  convention  had 
drifted  between  them,  and  she  could  not  understand 
how  he  could  care  more  for  a  social  law  than  for  his 
own  daughter.  And  now  his  eyes  hurt  her.  His 
broken  efforts  to  be  as  he  always  had  been  struck 
terror  in  her  heart.  His  allegiance  to  a  social  stand 
ard  of  another  day  remained  inexplicable  to  her.  To 
her  it  seemed  that  her  father  had  never  known  about 
life.  He  had  wanted  her  to  have  happiness,  but  he 


250  IRON  CITY 

had  not  shown  her  how  or  where  to  find  it  All  he 
had  ever  said  was,  "Don't,  don't,  don't,"  until  her 
ears  ached.  All  the  pretty  world  of  pleasure  had 
seemed  closed  by  "don't."  Then  there  was  her  mother 
so  spiritless,  so  utterly  lost  to  life.  Margaret,  as  she 
thought  on  those  two  quenched  lives  at  home,  was 
filled  with  pity  and  resentment  and  the  hopeless  fu 
tility  of  turning  back  to  them  for  aid. 

She  sat  gnawing  her  nails,  torn  by  the  music  from 
the  Club,  and  the  swish  of  leaden  waters  before  her. 
She  heard,  too,  above  and  beyond  the  brass  and 
strings,  the  pervading  monotone  of  industry — the 
whisper  of  wheels  and  whine  of  whistles — expansive 
and  dim,  the  faint  note  of  her  environment.  She  had 
known  that  factory  all  her  life — and  only  during  the 
strike  had  she  ever  failed  to  hear  the  beat  of  its  wheels. 
Could  she  look  to  it  for  help?  Her  hands  clenched 
at  her  face  and  she  turned  hot  at  the  recollection  of 
old  Sill's  arrogance.  How  she  hated  him.  His  fac 
tory  had  sucked  her  father  dry  and  then  scrapped 
him! 

As  usual  Margaret  was  not  thinking.  She  could 
not  think;  only  aim  to,  and  beat  about  in  futile  ef 
forts  to  reason.  She  was  drifting  hopelessly  along  on 
the  river  of  images  that  flows  through  the  subjective 
world. 

From  the  factory  her  mind  flowed  to  that  other 
group  of  buildings  on  the  hill,  still  and  calm,  under 
the  young  moon,  so  aloof  from  the  life  that  surged 
around  it.  How  impotent  to  help  her  the  college 
seemed  in  this  complex  crisis  in  relation  with  other 
humans  and  with  herself.  Strange,  when  she  thought 
of  the  college,  she  always  thought  of  Cosmus. 

She  recalled  that  meeting  long  ago  on  the  road  east 


IRON  CITY  251 

of  the  city,  and  his  suggestion  that  they  go  to  the 
secluded  cabin.  What  if  she  had  gone?  Would  life 
have  been  different?  A  wave  of  self-pity  broke  over 
her,  and  she  leaned  against  the  cold  bench  and  sobbed. 
Cosmus  had  not  helped  her;  no  one  had.  She  was 
alone, — lost. 

With  sudden  resolution  she  stood  up,  and  threw 
off  her  heavy  cloak.  Her  limbs  were  tense,  like  an 
animal's,  ready  to  leap  as  she  stood  looking  down  into 
the  pool.  It  was  deep  here  she  knew,  for  the  heavier 
launches  came  up  from  the  river.  She  wondered  how 
quickly  it  would  be  over,  whether  she  would  strug 
gle  ;  then  as  the  cold  wind  struck  her,  she  put  her  cloak 
on  again.  It  would  help  drag  her  down,  she  thought. 

Calmer  now,  she  had  turned  to  leap  into  the  water, 
when  her  ear  caught  the  persistent  drumming  of  a 
motor.  Was  a  launch  coming  up  the  river?  No,  it 
seemed  behind  her.  Just  behind.  Just  above.  Sud 
denly  against  the  open  sky  she  saw  a  flying  shadow; 
and  then  a  floating  rag  against  the  moon  and  stars; 
and  then  a  vast  leaf  wafted  eastward.  Raymond  in 
his  plane !  She  followed  his  flight,  all  vibrancy.  Sud 
denly  his  motor  seemed  to  stop,  the  great  leaf  swerved, 
veered  and  disappeared  in  shadows  behind  the  trees 
across  the  river.  How  dangerous  to  fly  at  night. 
Why  wasn't  he  going  toward  the  city  ? 

Margaret  sat  down  on  the  bench  trembling.  A  light 
broke  in  upon  her.  Perhaps  Raymond  was  running 
away.  She  was  all  resentment  toward  him  now.  Until 
this  evening  she  had  thought  that  she  wanted  to  make 
him  suffer;  but  she  had  suddenly  realized  in  that  last 
interview  that  after  all  what  he  felt  or  thought  no 
longer  made  any  difference  to  her.  She  hated  him  for 
his  selfishness  and  for  what  he  had  done  to  her  life, 


252  IRON  CITY 

for  what  he  had  made  her  suffer — alone!  If  only  he 
were  really  gone  she  could  forget  and  begin  again ;  she 
need  never  be  reminded  of  what  had  happened.  After 
all,  what  did  it  matter — a  little  slip  like  that?  There 
was  to  be  no  baby — no  one  need  ever  know. 

If  only  he  were  really  gone!  She  looked  up  in  the 
sky  where  he  had  disappeared — suddenly  she  felt  free 
— suddenly  she  chose  to  live. 

Some  one  must  have  opened  a  window  in  the  house, 
for  the  music  blew  out  to  meet  her  mood.  She  must 
be  free!  The  moon  and  stars,  the  orchestra  said  so! 
How  she  wanted  to  be  happy!  How  she  loved  life! 
Far  away  the  foolish  thought  of  death  receded.  She 
knelt  softly  by  the  lagoon,  and  dropped  her  handker 
chief  into  its  waters,  and  bathed  her  burning  face. 

It  made  no  difference.  Who  would  say  it  did? 
Who  was  to  deny  Margaret  this  easy  egress  from  her 
problem?  After  all  it  was  not  a  matter  of  bad  and 
good.  Only  a  simple  matter  of  discrimination.  It 
was  not  what  Margaret  had  suffered,  it  was  only  what 
she  had  missed. 

She  went  exultantly  toward  the  house.  On  the  bal 
cony  in  a  patch  of  shadow,  a  woman  was  standing 
looking  into  the  night.  Margaret  craved  human  inter 
course. 

"Oh,  aren't  you  happy!"  she  cried  impulsively. 

"No,  child,  I  can  hardly  say  that  I  am,"  a  voice  re 
plied. 

And  then  Margaret  saw  that  it  was  "that  Sarah 
Blackstone." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  was  broad  daylight  in  Cosmus's  room,  clear  and 
quiet  like  the  rare  days  of  childhood.  The  post 
man  had  just  brought  the  mail.  At  the  top  of  the 
letter  when  he  opened  it  he  read  in  a  strange  hand' 
writing,  "Sergeant  Ezra  Kimbark  died  with  honor  in 
the  recent  offensive  at  —  — ." 

Cosmus  held  before  him  the  saddest  of  all  war's 
ironies,  a  letter  from  the  dead  to  the  living.  It  seemed 
to  be  poor  Kimbark's  daily  jottings,  made  into  a  let 
ter.  He  had  written : 

"I  know  your  insatiable  appetite  for  war  stories; 
you  have  read  them  all,  so  I  am  not  going  to  enter 
tain  you  with  any  close-ups  of  the  front.  My  case  is 
pretty  typical.  War  is  all  body.  That  I  have  found 
out.  I  find  myself  overeating,  lusting  and  under- 
sleeping.  The  first  relief  I  get  from  service,  I  gorge 
myself  on  chocolate  or  wine  and  cakes — if  I  can  get 
them;  and  I  have  a  hard  time  turning  away  from 
the  women  that  infest  all  camps — even  the  best.  Life 
is  cheap — as  nothing  else  in  the  world,  and  therefore 
one  can't  have  very  much  respect  for  himself.  It  is 
only  during  the  infrequent  lulls  in  the  battle — when 
an  unbelievable  silence  floats  down  on  a  fetid  world, 
and  peace  glides  in — that  I  ever  seem  myself;  you 
wouldn't  know  me. 

"One  dream  has  recurred  nearly  every  time  I  sleep. 
Myself  falling  in  a  charge.  I  always  see  him, — Ezra 
Kimbark,  that  was  I, — from  the  outside.  I  am  the 

253 


254  IRON  CITY 

i 

spectator,  never  the  participator  in  the  battle — and  al 
ways  I  fall  from  a  bullet,  face  forward  toward  the 
enemy's  trench. 

"Yesterday  when  we  took  ten  yards  of  trench,  I 
saw  a  French  boy  refuse  to  plunge  his  bayonet  into 
the  breast  of  an  enemy,  when  he  cried  'kamerad,' 
and  lose  his  life  from  a  bomb  from  somewhere  be 
hind.  I  bent  over  him.  'Don't  stop,'  he  cried,  Tm 
just  a  little  out  of  luck.  Go  on,  go  on.'  He  tried 
to  wave  his  arms. 

"Sometimes  one  has  insistent  visions — these  come 
at  the  most  impossible  moments;  in  an  interval  of 
quiet,  or  in  the  rush  and  stir  of  charge. 

"The  other  day  when  the  Germans  drove  us  back, 
I  was  filled  with  the  hallucination  that  I  was  accom 
panied  by  a  figure  that  was  large  and  paternal,  shel 
tering  me.  I  knew  it  was  an  illusion,  and  yet  I  liked 
it.  And  more  strange,  I  saw  just  behind  me  the  ma 
terialization  of  a  picture  I  once  had  seen  of  Lin 
coln — high  hat — shawl  about  his  shoulders,  large  and 
paternal.  We  had  not  eaten  anything  for  nearly  three 
days;  got  caught  between  fires,  and  you  know  they 
say  hunger  produces  visions. 

"And  yet  I  am  not  sure  this  Lincoln  wasn't  an  ob- 
jectification  of  my  recent  musings.  All  my  life-long 
I  have  been  trying  to  find  America,  my  country,  and  it 
has  only  been  in  these  few  days  of  horror  that  I  have 
come  into  any  realization  of  what  America  is  to  me. 
I  flatter  myself  that  this  is  not  merely  the  usual  ex 
perience  of  the  expatriate,  but  peculiar  to  me.  The 
guns  have  pounded  something  into  my  head  at  last, 
John. 

"The  tangled  truth  of  the  war  reveals  this  fact: 
Nations  will  no  longer  exist  because  of  geographical 


IRON  CITY  255 

boundaries,  or  the  natural  bonds  of  race  and  tongue. 
America  is  not  fifty  states,  or  the  central  part  of  North 
America.  She  isn't  even  a  language,  or  a  form  of 
government.  She  is  a  current  of  ideas — nothing  more. 
The  Germans  did  right  in  emphasizing  'kultur'  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war,  for  kultur,  and  not  the  'Uber 
Rhein  States/  is  Germany.  And  American  kultur  is 
America.  All  that  this  movement  toward  interna 
tionalism  can  mean,  is  reinterpretation  of  nationalism. 

"We  have  been  thing-minded  in  America,  and  im 
agined  that  a  pseudo-democracy  and  a  million  square 
miles  of  pay-dirt  made  us  America.  We  have  neg 
lected,  too,  the  great  embodiment  of  our  'kultur'  in 
our  native  genius.  Lincoln,  with  his  passionate  vision 
and  his  practical  power,  his  'malice  toward  none'  and 
his  ability  to  prosecute  the  Civil  War  to  a  successful 
conclusion,  is  American  'kultur'  incarnate.  America, 
formed  of  the  liberals  of  the  world,  has  shown  a  pro 
pensity  for  putting  into  practice  the  loftiest  concepts 
acquired  through  world-experience.  And  the  whole 
question  at  stake  is  whether  we  prefer  Lincoln  to 
Frederick  the  Great.  This  is  a  war  of  kulturs. 

"What  of  America  and  the  war? 

"Turned  a  preacher,  haven't  I?  why  shouldn't  I? 
That  you  at  home  should  see  this  in  time  is  worth 
something  more  to  me  than  my  miserable  life. 

"I  have  thought  a  good  deal  lately  about  my  talk 
with  you  just  before  I  left,  my  whining  and  groaning 
— all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  guess  I  must  have  been 
'weepy-drunk' — and  I  have  concluded  that  I  was  not 
so  much  of  a  poet  as  I  thought  I  was.  If  I  had  been, 
I  should  have  created  something  in  spite  of  the  Sills 
and  Crandons  that  rule  America.  And  yet  I  still  hold 
a  grudge.  I  had  as  much  genius  as  John  Hay,  born 


256  IRON  CITY 

ten  miles  from  my  home,  and  he  succeeded.  All  of 
which  seems  petty  in  the  light  of  this  candle,  here  in 
this  dug-out,  amidst  the  bellowing  of  these  guns." 

Here  the  scribbling  stopped.  The  letter  remained 
unfinished.  There  were  enclosed  a  few  details  from 
the  sender  about  how  Kimbark  had  met  his  death,  his 
popularity  in  the  squad,  and  his  unfailing  good  humor. 
That  was  all. 

So  Kimbark  was  dead!  The  news  was  not  a  sur 
prise  and  yet  it  was  particularly  disconcerting  to  Cos- 
mus.  It  seemed  at  the  moment  of  its  coming,  the  last 
straw  of  grief  in  a  burden  of  heavy  sorrows.  Cosmus 
was  sick  at  heart. 

There  are  some  natures  who  find  their  happiness  in 
the  farther  reaches  of  the  spirit;  in  patriotism  and  in 
religion,  and  love  of  humanity.  Cosmus  was  of  such 
disposition.  It  seemed  more  important  to  him  that 
justice  triumph  than  that  his  own  body  be  comfortable. 

Unfortunately  the  modern  world  furnishes  such  a 
mind  as  his  with  a  medium  for  watching  the  progress 
of  justice  in  the  world;  the  newspaper  with  its  chron 
icle  of  events  is  but  a  mirror  of  human  society.  With 
a  perverse  gift  of  imagination,  Cosmus  lived  through 
every  event  recorded  until  his  mind  was  a  convulsive 
heap  of  tragic  stories.  Rape  of  Belgium,  German 
atrocities,  Armenian  disasters,  strikes,  riots,  plagues 
and  poisonings;  the  continual  thwarting  of  the  wish 
of  the  majority  by  the  few,  the  cunning,  the  bribery 
of  the  ruling  class;  an  impending  national  crisis  of 
portentous  implications,  restive  classes,  and  at  home 
in  Iron  City,  Walt  Kuhns,  mangled  and  broken;  the 
city  gagged  by  the  patrol  of  injustice.  Now  Ezra 
Kimbark's  death! 

Tears?    John  Cosmus  had  not  cried  for  years.   His 


IRON  CITY  257 

grief  was  not  of  that  sort,  but  he  felt  the  brooding, 
smoldering  sorrow  of  intense  contemplation. 

His  mind  was  seismographic  in  its  recording  of 
world  tremors;  and  the  incoming  year  of  1917  seemed 
full  of  grave  forebodings.  This  weight  of  the  uni 
versal,  resting  heavily  on  his  mind,  told  on  his  physical 
strength.  He  found  himself  going  home  from  classes 
utterly  fatigued,  and  Sarah  Blackstone  told  him  he 
looked  ten  years  older.  He  could  not  rest.  His  sleef) 
was  broken  and  fretful.  His  mind  was  a  cinema  of 
frightful  close-ups.  More  than  ever  he  craved  amuse 
ment,  relaxation  and  play,  and  yet  every  effort  to  get 
away  from  the  sorry  circle  of  ideas  he  counted  wasted. 
He  took  pleasures  guiltily. 

His  only  reading  was  newspapers.  Newspapers  ob 
sessed  him.  Through  them  he  watched  every  move 
of  the  opposing  armies  on  the  Western  front,  and 
when  the  morning  paper  was  read  he  waited  for  the 
noon  edition,  and  passed,  after  its  perusal,  to  antici 
pation  of  the  evening. 

In  keeping  with  the  popular  vogue  of  vers  libre  he 
became  addicted  to  the  habit,  and  drolly  conscious  of 
his  unscholarly  effort,  set  down  lines  to  "The  News 
paper."  They  were  of  no  interest,  except  as  repre 
sentative  of  his  intimate  union  with  the  world.  He 
wrote : 

"I  rush  out  of  my  house, 

And  drag  you  in, 

You  foul  thing: 

Reeking  with  the  sweat  and  filth, 

The  putrid  slime  of  all  the  dirty  world. 

I  devour  you  through  my  eyes, 

Incorporate  you  into  my  life: 

Incorporate  you  into  our  composite  life. 


258  IRON  CITY 

Why  do  I  lust  after  scandal,  and  you. 

Man's    poor    failures,    miserable    delinquences,    tragic 

horrors — and  you. 
Why  can't  I  rest  until  I  have  brought  you  in!" 

Cosmus  did  not  show  his  "poem"  to  any  one;  it 
might  have  been  better  if  he  had.  He  was  fast  losing 
grip  on  social  principles,  and  he  needed  the  steadying 
experience  of  laughter — at  himself. 

He  went  to  see  Walt  Kuhns,  who  gave  him  deep 
concern.  He  was  allowed  to  be  with  the  leader  of 
the  strikers  only  for  a  few  minutes  and  the  visit  was 
unsatisfactory.  Though  Kuhns  had  recovered  con 
sciousness  in  the  three  days  intervening,  he  still  was 
weak  and  still  spit  blood.  He  seemed  pitiably  insen 
sible  to  the  fact  that  the  strike  had  utterly  failed.  On 
the  table  was  a  pad  of  paper  and  a  pencil. 

"I'm  glad  you  came,  Comer,"  he  whispered.  Then, 
seeing  Cosmus's  questioning  glance,  said,  "The  De 
fense  comes  out  just  the  same,  you  know."  But  it 
didn't,  Cosmus  knew.  That  was  only  a  merciful  fic 
tion  which  the  nurses  had  fabricated. 

From  the  hospital  that  night,  he  went  forth  out 
wardly  calm,  but  inwardly  troubled.  It's  so  hidden — 
this  tragedy  of  daily  life — this  slow  invisible  burning 
at  the  center  of  personality — with  no  outward  vent. 
One  can  carry  grief  and  transact  the  surface  duties 
of  daily  routine,  with  no  more  manifestation  than 
quickened  pulse,  heightened  blood1  pressure  or  un 
changing  color  in  the  cheek.  Even  these  evidences 
were  not  present  in  Cosmus.  His  trouble  manifested 
itself  only  in  hopeless  wrath,  deep  enervating  anger, 
at  forces  that  pinioned  Kuhns  to  his  bed;  in  a  petty 
aversion  for  the  crowds  and  jungle  of  the  city. 


IRON  CITY  259 

"God!  what  a  noise!"  he  thought.  "The  people  are 
so  aimless.  They  push  so!  There  is  no  room  on  the 
sidewalks.  Those  mustard  colored  coats  are  hideous. 
Women  will  show  their  ankles.  I  must  get  out  of 
this  quick,  or  I'll  smother." 

He  turned  off  Main  Street,  and  thought  of  home. 
Then,  he  knew  he  would  not  sleep.  He  must  go  on. 
He  must  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  until  he  was  tired.  He 
was  not  tired  now,  only  nervous.  And  he  had  a  head 
ache,  too. 

He  craved  something.  What  was  it?  Ah,  he  knew. 
A  talk,  a  rousing  talk  with  a  friend  on  some  such  ab 
stract  theme  as  "Is  suicide  ever  legitimate?"  With 
a  friend  ?  Say,  with  Kimbark. 

Then  his  mind  jerked  back  to  the  letter  he  had  re 
ceived  that  morning,  and  to  the  bitter  realization — 
more  keen  than  at  any  time  that  day — that  Kimbark 
would  not  ever  talk  with  him  again. 

His  mind  resumed  its  pounding.  Yes,  the  war  had 
brought  changes  even  in  the  city.  There's  millionaires' 
row  yonder  built  out  of  munitions.  Every  brick  in 

those  mansions  is  a  human  life.  And  Mrs.  B says, 

"If  the  war  holds  out  another  year,  we'll  be  multi 
millionaires." 

But  this  will  not  do.  One's  mind  must  have  rest. 
Play  is  an  excellent  tonic.  One  should  play.  He 
would  go  and  get  Sarah  Blackstone.  He  retraced  his. 
steps,  turned  up  the  chief  residential  street,  and  in  the 
course  of  ten  minutes  stood  before  Sarah's  door. 

Once  there,  he  could  not  go  in  and  he  felt  a  strong 
resentment  toward  her.  He  had  been  quite  right, 
Sarah  was  all  mind.  She  lacked  warmth,  humanity, 
body  or  something.  But  he  loved  her.  Yes,  he  loved 
her — but  he  would  not  marry  her.  Some  one,  per- 


260  IRON  CITY 

haps  Sidney  Haynes,  would  do  that.  He  turned  back 
and  went  over  to  the  park  and  sat  on  the  bench  be 
neath  the  statue  of  R.  Sill,  the  first,  where  they  had 
sat  together  the  first  night  three  years  ago.  They 
had  seemed  so  near  then,  and  now  their  relations  were 
just  a  long  series  of  vain  gropings  toward  each  other. 
But  he  wanted  her.  He  needed  her. 

Why  couldn't  she  be  like  his  mother?  Why  couldn't 
he  go  to  her  to-night — now — and  creep  into  her  arms 
and  feel  the  quietude  of  deep  maternity?  Instead,  if 
he  went  she  would  make  him  think,  and  arouse  his 
will  to  action  and  make  him  feel  that  he  must  do  some 
thing  at  once  or  the  world  would  tumble,  a  black  cin 
der,  into  a  sea  of  oblivion. 

No,  he  didn't  want  Sarah  to-night.    He  wanted  rest. 

He  sat  on  the  bench  in  the  deserted  park  for  perhaps 
an  hour.  "Trying  to  relax,"  he  called  it;  and  then  a 
loaded  street-car  jangled  by ;  above  the  wheels  he  could 
hear  the  laughter  of  people  in  pursuit  of  pleasure,  and 
he  could  see  that  not  all  were  going  home  from  toil. 
In  that  moment  the  crowds  seemed  identified  with 
himself  in  want,  and  hunger  for  something,  they  knew 
not  what. 

He  arose,  and  followed  the  path,  crisp  under  foot 
with  bronze  oak  leaves,  down  through  the  hollow  in 
the  park,  across  the  street,  through  a  darker  street, 
across  the  railroad  tracks,  out  into  the  open  country. 
Near  a  creek,  that  found  its  destination  in  Bass  River 
below,  he  discovered  a  sycamore  tree,  ghost-like,  in 
the  dark,  its  roots  spread  out  like  a  woman's  skirts. 
He  sat  down  on  these  roots  in  utter  fatigue,  and 
waited. 

His  mind  worked  in  and  out  of  problems,  experi 
ences,  memories  and  impressions.  He  thought  of  the 


IRON  CITY  261 

day  now  nearly  ten  years  before,  when  he  had  climbed 
the  telephone  post,  tapped  the  trans-continental  wire, 
and  had  got  his  inspiration  to  go  to  college.  He 
thought  of  college,  graduate  school,  his  hopes  for  edu 
cation,  Margaret  Morton,  Raymond  Sill,  Walt  Kuhns, 
Ezra  Kimbark,  President  Crandon, — these  vivid  per 
sonalities  that  crowded  his  life — and  then  the  factory 
— whose  faint  clangor  he  could  still  detect  in  the 
night;  and  the  war.  How  different,  how  vastly  dif 
ferent  the  world  was  now  from  the  world  as  it  then 
seemed  to  be ! 

In  some  moment  of  this  thinking  he  became  aware 
of  the  vast  night  stretching  around  him,  the  earth  so 
wide  and  patient,  the  stars,  infinite  and  tender,  the 
expansive  stillness  of  the  world.  The  valley  yonder, 
the  heavy  speech  of  the  running  water,  the  city  lights 
behind — they,  too,  were  part  of  the  peace  of  the  wider 
upper  universe.  Behold,  the  night  was  paternal  and 
enfolding. 

Suddenly  as  he  sat  there  all  fatigue  was  gone.  It 
slipped  from  him  mysteriously.  He  was  strong,  ca 
pable.  Even  the  war — that  inexplicable  orgy — seemed 
potential  with  good.  Somewhere  in  his  thinking,  some 
idea,  some  raveling  of  feeling,  had  brushed  his  soul 
clean  of  fear,  anguish  and  hatred.  He  had  let  go  and 
slipped  into  Life. 

At  length  he  remembered:  that  cleansing  thought 
was  the  thought  of  God. 

Behind  him,  breaking  the  stillness,  he  heard  a  voice 
calling — far  away,  indistinct,  then  nearer.  Rested, 
he  arose,  and  went  toward  the  city.  As  he  approached, 
he  could  detect  the  words  borne  by  the  voice :  "Extra, 
Extra." 

Should  he  buy  a  newspaper  ?    Yes,  he  was  strong  to 


262  IRON  CITY 

face  reality  again.  An  extra  edition  of  the  Republic- 
Despatch  gave  another  start  to  Iron  City's  jaded  at 
tention.  The  headlines  read : 

MILLIONAIRE'S  SON  MISSING 


Raymond    Sill,    Only  Son    of  the    Head   of    Iron 
City's  Premier  Manufacturing  Establish 
ment,  Disappears 


NOT  SEEN  FOR  THREE  DAYS 

FOUL  PLAY  ON  PART  OF 

STRIKERS  FEARED 


WALT  KUHNS  MAY  HAVE  INSTIGATED  REVENGE— WILL  BE  PUT 
UNDER  SURVEILLANCE 

"Here  is  hell  to  pay,"  Cosmus  thought.  "If  Walt 
Kuhns  is  held  in  any  way  responsible  for  this,  all  hu 
man  justice  fails.  How  utterly,  how  criminally  pre 
posterous." 

But  what  was  to  be  done?  Who  dared  to  affront 
the  law,  or  who  was  subtle  enough  to  thread  the  webby 
forces  that  lay  behind  the  Law?  "That  damned  Ray 
mond  Sill,  he  deserved  all  he  got,  whatever  it  was.  He 
was  wicked  all  through,"  Cosmus  thought  resentfully. 

But  did  that  touch  the  problem?  In  searching  for 
a  solution,  he  thought  of  Hugh  Crandon  before  he 
saw  his  tall  form  ahead  of  him  in  the  thinning  crowds. 
It  took  but  a  minute  to  overtake  the  president,  present 
his  request,  and  march  along  with  the  affable  gentle 
man  to  his  palatial  office. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

DO  you  smoke?" 
With  a  flourish  President  Crandon  took  a  box 
of  fine  cigars  from  his  desk  and  offered  them  to  his 
caller. 

"I  keep  these  here  for  my  trustees  when  they  call; 
of  course,  I  don't  use  the  weed." 

Cosmus  declined  the  luxury,  and  wondered  how 
any  one  could  imagine  that  Crandon  would  taint  his 
elegant  lips  with  tobacco. 

"Look  over  this,  then,  will  you  for  a  moment,  Mr. 
Cosmus?  I  was  just  on  my  way  to  the  office  when 
you  accosted  me,  and  I  should  like  to  get  some  work 
out  of  the  way  first." 

President  Crandon  was  handing  a  copy  of  "The 
Classical  Ideal"  toward  his  guest.  Cosmus  took  the 
book,  opened  it  casually,  but  occupied  his  mind  with 
his  own  reflections. 

The  office  of  President  Hugh  Crandon  always 
seemed  so  impossibly  shiny,  so  unused  and  unusable, 
so  formidable  and  uninviting  to  John  Cosmus  that  he 
smiled  at  his  own  temerity  in  approaching  the  head  of 
Crandon  Hill  College.  Yet  he  did  not  about-face. 

Something  had  happened  to  him  that  night.  The 
deep  emotionalism  into  which  war  and  the  death  of 
Ezra  Kimbark  had  plunged  him,  had  passed  at  length 
into  fighting  spirit.  If  this  office,  finer  even  than 
R.  Sill's,  was  just  like  its  owner,  showy  and  formid 
able,  still  it  could  not  turn  Cosmus  back  from  the 

263 


264  IRON  CITY 

job  in  hand.  Walt  Kuhns  must  be  saved  the  least  in 
convenience  now;  and  it  was  time,  moreover,  that 
Cosmus  make  himself  felt  in  this  institution.  He  was 
beginning  to  forsake  the  role  of  spectator,  for  that  of 
actor. 

Piqued,  too,  by  curiosity,  a  curiosity  that  had  never 
forsaken  him  in  these  years  at  Crandon  Hill  College, 
Cosmus  was  anxious  to  peep  behind  that  mask  of 
immobility  that  President  Crandon  wore. 

What  was  this  Puritan's  will  to  power?  What 
logic  could  sustain  the  actions  of  this  petty  monarch 
of  this  little  world? 

Cosmus,  student  of  society  that  he  was,  had  his 
own  pet  theories  about  President  Hugh  Crandon.  He 
had  evolved  them  months  previous,  when  he  learned 
that  Reverend  Mr.  Crandon  had  called  on  a  young  in 
structor  and  demanded  that  he  have  children,  and  that 
he,  Crandon,  often  dictated  just  what  the  few  women 
teachers  should  wear.  The  era  just  past,  the  student 
of  society  cogitated,  was  especially  conducive  to  grow 
ing  a  variety  of  despots  in  the  national  garden.  Men 
addicted  to  the  disease  of  power  were  common ;  what 
R.  Sill  was  in  civil  life,  Crandon  was  in  domestic. 
R.  Sill  chose  to  dictate  public  morals,  Hugh  Crandon 
to  regulate  private  manners.  For  to  Cosmus,  Cran 
don  had  always  seemed  bent  on  weaving  and  preserv 
ing  a  network  of  personal  relations.  Form,  manners, 
the  machinery  of  life, — never  its  spirit  and  principle, 
— seemed  his  chief  concern.  He  chose  his  faculty 
from  among  the  husbands  of  his  wife's  friends,  or 
from  the  sons  of  eminent  professors,  who  had  gone 
before;  and  he  strove  with  all  that  in  him  lay  to  pre 
serve  that  fine  mass  of  college  traditions  which  finally 
resolved  themselves  into  personal  reminiscences,  or 


IRON  CITY  265 

the  history  of  a  few  illustrious  families.  Many  a  time 
Cosmus  had  heard  the  president  of  Crandon  Hill  tell 
how  he  had  won  the  allegiance  of  so  illustrious  a 
financier  as  R.  Sill  to  a  noble  institution.  There  was 
no  out-looking  vision  in  his  educational  addresses. 

President  Crandon  seemed  utterly  suspicious  of  an 
idea.  An  idea  was  so  impersonal.  It  usually  cut 
through  the  fabric  which  he  was  energetically  trying 
to  erect  and  worse — it  was  no  respecter  of  persons. 
When  Cosmus  had  gone  to  the  president  with  a  plan 
for  reaching  the  aliens  in  the  city  with  elementary 
courses  in  social  hygiene,  he  had  answered,  "Well, 
now  that  is  a  very  novel  idea,  Mr.  Cosmus,  very  novel 
indeed,  and  I  shall  keep  it  in  mind." 

This  mind  must  have  been  an  inward-opening  store 
house,  for  no  ideas  ever  got  out.  Cosmus  often 
thought,  if  an  idea  could  be  properly  sexed,  clothed 
in  immaculate  linen,  and  presented  at  an  afternoon 
tea,  or  at  a  meeting  of  the  board  of  trustees,  then 
Crandon  might  accept  it,  especially  if  it  appeared  with 
proper  references.  But  usually  ideas  appear  in  such 
gross  nudity,  at  such  unexpected  times,  in  such  out 
landish  places,  it  were  best  to  taboo  them  always.  The 
>old,  the  tried,  the  well-bred — these  must  be  the  cus 
tom  of  the  college.  At  whatever  cost,  the  fabric  of 
personal  relations  must  not  be  rent. 

And  yet,  when  Cosmus  saw  President  Crandon 
turn  toward  him  with  the  engaging  smile  which  he 
knew  so  well  how  to  use,  so  infectious  was  the  charm 
of  the  man  that  he  wondered  if  he  had  read  the  riddle 
of  his  personality  aright. 

"And  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked.  "It's  a 
pleasure  to  have  you  come  in  this  way.  I  always 
crave  frank  relations  with  my  faculty." 


266  IRON  CITY 

This  was  disarming.  If  Cosmus  had  expected  cold 
ness  and  deceit,  he  was  to  be  disappointed. 

"I  have  come  about  the  strike — that  is,  the  disagree 
able  aftermath  of  the  strike." 

"Yes,  yes,  it  was  very  unpleasant,  indeed  vulgar 
and  damaging,  wasn't  it?  Iron  City  has  been  very 
fortunate  up  to  this  year  to  have  no  such  disgraceful 
labor  disturbances.  But  it  is  all  over  now,  I  under 
stand,  and  quite  localized.  No  doubt,  we  can  con 
gratulate  ourselves  on  our  successful  emergence  from 
this  chaos,  Mr.  Cosmus." 

Cosmus  was  astounded.  Though  he  was  armed 
with  previous  impressions  of  Reverend  Hugh  Crandon, 
still  he  could  not  adjust  his  mind  readily  to  the  presi 
dent's  easy  acceptance  of  conditions  as  they  were. 
Surprise  prompted  him  to  put  his  remark  in  the  form 
of  a  question. 

"So  you,  too,  think  it  was  spasmodic?"  He  was 
thinking  of  R.  Sill. 

"What  else?  The  working  man  has  never  been  so 
prosperous,  so  well-informed,  and  I  should  say  so 
content.  It  is  only  when  he  is  tampered  with  by  well- 
intentioned  but  misguided  reformers,  who  urge  him 
to  break  the  law,  that  he  becomes  a  nuisance.  We 
must  have,  therefore,  laws  to  discipline  the  reformer. 
And  we  will,  no  doubt." 

Was  this  some  colossal  jest?  Fresh  from  the  sight 
of  Walt  Kuhns,  from  the  reality  of  war  in  Ezra  Kim- 
bark's  death,  as  Cosmus  was,  to  him  President  Cran 
don  seemed  some  poor  automatic  thing  chanting  plat 
itudes.  The  riddle  of  his  personality  was  more  tangled 
than  ever.  Cosmus  had  not  lived  long  enough  to  know 
that  men  can  be  good  local  citizens,  and  know  nothing 
of  national  problems  or  responsibilities.  He  did  not 


IRON  CITY  267 

know  that  President  Crandon  gave  widely  to  charity, 
and  was  the  donor  of  the  very  room  at  the  free  hos 
pital  where  Walt  Kuhns  lay.  He  did  not  know  that 
he  was  the  greatest  authority  on  Church  Law  in  Amer 
ica.  How  could  he  gauge  the  struggle  and  heart-burn 
ings  that  Hugh  Crandon  had  suffered  to  keep  alive 
this  institution  in  an  inimical  industrial  environment? 
All  Cosmus  could  feel  was  indignation  and  despair; 
the  impulse  to  strike,  and  the  temptation  to  flee,  and 
his  only  thought  was,  "Can  all  this  suffering  be  for 
nothing?" 

There  was  abrupt  silence  in  the  room,  for  Hugh 
Crandon  was  waiting  for  his  caller  to  speak.  But 
John  Cosmus  did  not  speak.  Instead  he  arose  as  if  to 
go,  hopeless  of  presenting  his  plea  to  such  a  judge. 
Then  the  president  said : 

"I  am  glad  you  brought  up  the  strike,  Mr.  Cosmus, 
for  it  gives  me  an  opportunity  I  have  long  wanted." 

He  paused;  Cosmus  braced  himself.  "If  he  re 
bukes  me,"  he  thought,  "I'll  flail  him." 

"Of  discussing,"  Crandon  continued,  "your  con 
nection  with  it.  It  has  been  a  matter  of  great  pain 
with  me,  with  all  of  us — faculty  and  trustees  alike, 
that  you  have  transgressed — though  not  maliciously, 
I  know — the  noble  traditions  of  the  college  by  abetting 
law-breakers.  But  I  have  been  patient.  I  have  re 
membered  your  youth,  and  your  ability,  and  in  the 
face  of  strong  opposition  have  clung  to  you,  for  I  have 
been  confident  that  in  the  end  you  would  put  yourself 
in  harmony  with  the  large  historical  background  of  the 
institution." 

President  Crandon  was  almost  warm  in  his  manner 
and  he  allowed  the  ghost  of  a  good-humored  smile  to 
flit  across  his  impassive  countenance,  as  he  continued : 


268  IRON  CITY 

"You  see,  I  am  something  of  a  radical  after  all.  I 
include  radicals.  When  I  find  a  man  opposing  me, 
I  draw  a  circle  and  take  him  in.  I  can't  hate  him,  you 
know ;  that  wouldn't  be  Christian." 

"The  genteel  tradition  in  American  life,"  Cosmus 
inwardly  commented,  "is  here  embodied  admirably 
in  you,  and  is  this  the  key  to  your  riddle?"  But  he 
answered  innocently : 

"Couldn't  you  draw  a  circle,  and  take  Walt  Kuhns 
in,  too?" 

Crandon's  placidity  snapped. 

"No,"  he  answered  sharply,  "he  is  outside  the  law 
— and  all  human  respect." 

"But  he  stands  for  the  new  day." 

"That's  just  it.  The  new!  The  new!  A  man  is 
sufficiently  condemned  nowadays  if  he  does  not  seek 
to  put  into  practice  every  random  idea  of  an  irrespon 
sible  tramp.  A  man  is  nothing  nowadays  unless  he  is 
in  accord  with  the  new  era — an  era  of  mad  chaos, 
cheap  morals  and  ugly  manners.  A  man  is  subject  to 
the  criticism  of  every  callow  youth  if  he  does  not  fa 
miliarize  himself  with  every  fashionable  cult,  every 
social  theory,  every  literary  whimsy,  every  transient 
morality — whether  they  run  counter  to  age-old  prin 
ciples  or  not.  What  would  become  of  the  world  if  it 
were  swayed  by  every  vagrant  mind?  This  institu 
tion,  Mr.  Cosmus,  stretches  back  into  the  past  for 
over  a  century;  I  expect  it  to  stretch  for 
ward  into  the  future,  endlessly.  Can  it  endure  if  it 
flirts  with  ignorance?  Should  it  shuffle  off  its  her 
itage  to  take  on  the  social  theories  of  a  Walt  Kuhns? 
I  have  received  this  institution  as  a  sacred  trust  from 
the  hands  of  noble  ancestors;  I  have  slaved  under  its 
burdens,  in  the  face  of  a  thousand  crises,  to  hand  it  on 


IRON  CITY  269 

untouched  by  the  ephemeral  to  the  future.  Colleges 

must  embody  the  tried,  the  right,  the  eternal I 

love  this  college,  and  by  God!  I  shall  protect  it  from 
all  adventurers." 

Cosmus  was  deeply  impressed  for  the  moment  by 
the  president's  earnestness.  For  the  first  time  he  had 
peeped  behind  the  mask  which  Hugh  Crandon  wore. 
But  the  imperturbable  institutionalism  of  Crandon 
was  not  sacrosanct  to  youth. 

He  answered  hotly :  "It  is  either  hypocrisy  or  stu 
pidity  that  can  make  you  pretend  that  democracy  is 
not  an  age-old,  well-tried  principle;  and  Walt  Kuhns 
represents  the  new  democracy  and  out  yonder  in  the 
world  that  you  ignore,  masses  of  men  are  preparing 
to  burn  this  sacred  institution  down  about  your  ears, 
if  you  don't  listen.  Education  is  for  all,  not  some." 

And  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  out.  Then, 
pausing  in  the  hall,  he  retraced  his  steps  to  add  another 
word.  In  the  doorway  he  paused.  The  form  he  had 
left  so  proud  and  defiant  was  crumpled  in  a  chair, — 
old  wrinkled  hands  pressed  tightly  against  forehead, 
eyes  closed,  lips  mumbling  as  in  prayer.  Had  the 
cause  of  Walt  Kuhns  won?  Cosmus  backed  out 
thoughtfully. 

Cosmus  did  not  leave  the  administration  building 
which  contained  the  office  of  Hugh  Crandon  without 
a  sense  of  awe  at  the  unavoidable  pain  of  the  world. 
He  could  not  soon  forget  the  anguish  on  the  old  pres 
ident's  face,  and  he  would  have  willingly  spared  him 
that  but  there  was  a  new  generation — the  breed  of 
Walt  Kuhns — which  must  be  looked  after.  Youth, 
impatient  and  strong.  Ah !  there  is  nothing  so  cruel  as 
youth  save,  perhaps,  old  age. 

It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock  when  Cosmus  turned  in 


270  IRON  CITY 

at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  At  the  desk  the  clerk  told  him 
to  call  2440. 

2440?  Who  was  that?  Then  he  remembered — 
Margaret  Morton. 

"How  long  ago  was  this  call  rung  in  ?"  he  asked. 

"About  ten  minutes  ago — and  she  seemed  awfully 
anxious." 

Cosmus  called  Morton's  and  had  Margaret  on  the 
wire  at  once.  She  wanted  him  to  "come  up — now — 
at  once — please."  With  some  reluctance  he  decided 
to  go,  not  without  misgivings,  however.  He  remem 
bered;  and  as  he  walked  along  he  discovered  that  the 
old  fragrant  charm  of  Margaret  still  lingered  near 
him. 

She  opened  the  door  before  he  could  ring  the  bell, 
and  ushered  him  into  the  dim  empty  parlor.  He  looked 
around  expectantly,  and  she  explained  that  her  father 
and  mother  had  gone  to  a  neighbor's. 

"They  don't  go  anywhere  any  more  unless  I  urge 
them."  She  paused.  Cosmus  was  conscious  of  the 
murmur  of  her  silken  skirts.  "And  besides,  I  wanted 
to  talk  with  you  alone." 

Cosmus  marveled  at  her.  Her  face  was  paler  and 
thinner,  and  she  looked  older,  yes,  and  her  figure  was 
matured,  but  the  old  unfathomable  witchery  of  eyes, 
bosom  and  hair  had  not  faded  in  the  slightest.  Mar 
garet  Morton  would  always  be  a  beautiful  woman, 
yes,  and  a  dangerous  one.  She  sat  easily  on  the  edge 
of  the  chair,  after  the  first  conventional  greeting,  not 
embarrassed  (Margaret  never  was)  but  sunk  into 
thought  fulness — a  state  quite  unnatural  to  her.  In 
his  heightened  imagination,  she  seemed  like  a  gay 
butterfly,  water-soaked  and  wind-blown  in  some  dark 
retreat.  Suddenly  she  explained  why  she  had  sent  for 


IRON  CITY  271 

him.  She  said,  without  perturbation  save  for  a  quick 
fluttering,  sideways  glance : 

"Oh!  Professor  Cosmus,  I'm  afraid  Raymond  Sill 
is  dead." 

"Dead?    What  do  you  mean?"  he  answered. 

"Killed.  I've  always  been  afraid  he  would  be.  He 
was  so  reckless.  I've  warned  him,  but  he  paid  no  at 
tention.  He  said  he  had  a  hunch  he  couldn't  be  and 
all  that.  Now  I'm  afraid  he  is  dead." 

"You're  excited  and  perhaps  justt  imagining  Stj. 
What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"No,  I'm  calm,"  she  answered,  "and  I  think  I'm 
glad.  You  see,  he  was  not  very  good  to  me." 

Then  she  told  him,  not  too  coherently,  of  when  she 
had  last  seen  Raymond  three  nights  before  at  the 
Country  Club:  she  said  nothing  of  their  quarrel,  but 
she  told  him  of  the  aeroplane  against  the  moon,  tipsy, 
careening  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

"You  see,  I  thought  it  always  flew  that  way  until 
I  read  this."  She  held  up  the  extra  edition  of  the 
Republic-Despatch.  "And  then  I  remembered  it  did 
seem  funny  even  then  and  how  something  took  hold 
of  me  here  inside,  some  fear — some  joy.  Oh,  to  think 
he  may  be  lying  out  there  now !" 

"This  is  serious,  Margaret.  Have  you  called  up 
the  police?" 

"I  didn't  dare.  Maybe  he's  in  Chicago, — only  gone 
away,  and  then  he  would  laugh  at  me." 

"But  a  man's  life  might  hang  on  this  information; 
perhaps " 

She  looked  up,  startled. 

"Raymond's,  you  mean?" 

"No;  some  one  must  be  held." 

"But  I  want  you  to  go  and  look  for  Raymond.    It's 


272  IRON  CITY 

just  out  Trimway  Road,  next  to  the  big  hill.  Can't 
you  go,  won't  you  go,  now?  At  once — early  in  the 
morning?" 

"I'll  go  on  one  condition,  Margaret — that  I  can  no 
tify  the  police  of  my  intentions.  Let's  see — to-mor 
row's  Friday.  I  have  only  one  class,  but  there's  regu 
lar  faculty  meeting.  Still,  I'll  go.  Of  course,  I'll  go." 

"I  knew  you  would  help  me." 

He  made  her  go  into  details  as  to  the  approximate 
position  of  the  falling  plane.  "Wait,  couldn't  you  go 
with  me?"  he  interrupted. 

She  shrank  back,  visibly  startled. 

"No,  oh  no.    We  might  find  him." 

The  look  on  her  face — the  fear,  awe,  amazement, 
were  almost  laughable. 

At  the  open  door  they  paused  for  a  moment,  look 
ing  out.  The  mild  December  night,  the  same  that  had 
enfolded  John  two  hours  before  in  the  bliss  of  solitude, 
enfolded  them  both  now.  How  responsive  nature  can 
be,  colored  by  human  moods.  The  night,  which  two 
hours  ago  seemed  to  him  paternal,  now  was  palpitant 
with  passion. 

"Almost  like  spring,"  Margaret  said,  "and  there's  a 
moon." 

"It's  been  a  wonderful  day,"  he  answered. 

She  came  close  to  him  and  looked  out.  They  stood 
for  a  moment  crowded  in  the  frame  of  the  door,  think 
ing  of  other  such  moments,  and  the  might-have-beens 
of  the  yesterdays.  She  laid  a  warm,  soft  hand  on 
his  arm,  and  said  : 

"Do  you  think,  Professor  Cosmus,  that  a  girl  who 
has  committed  a  great,  great  wrong,  ever  has  a  right 
to  marry?" 


IRON  CITY  273 

Somehow  the  question  did  not  come  as  a  surprise  to 
him.  It  was  the  kind  of  a  question  he  would  expect 
of  Margaret.  She  was  looking  up  at  him  eager,  deep- 
eyed,  receptive;  he  marked  how  her  bosom  curved 
under  the  sway  of  her  breath.  Margaret  was  serious. 

"Why,  of  course,  all  of  us  sociologists  believe  that, 
provided " 

"Provided  what?" 

"Well,  that  she  doesn't  make  the  same  mistake  over, 
is  refined  and  chastened  by  her  first  experience,  and 
perfectly  frank  in  her  confession  of  fault." 

"I  confess,  then,"  she  answered  softly.  "Raymond 
was  the  man,  and  if  you  find  him  dead " 

He  did  not  get  the  full  significance  of  her  quick 
retort  at  first,  and  when  he  did,  he  trembled  wonder- 
ingly,  drew  back,  afraid  of  her  challenge,  and  pushed 
past  her  to  the  walk.  He  stopped  there,  for  she  was 
saying  almost  with  something  of  her  old  gayety : 

"Aren't  you  going  to  say  good-night?" 

"Good-night,  Margaret — and  don't  marry  too 
quickly,  not  unless  the  right  man  comes  along." 

She  did  not  answer.  He  heard  the  door  close  be 
hind  her. 

In  his  room,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  the  open 
letter  of  Ezra  Kimbark  recalled  the  grief  that  had 
started  the  day.  He  threw  himself,  without  undress 
ing,  full  length  upon  the  bed. 

"What  a  day  it  has  been !"  he  said. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  experienced  all  things 
in  that  narrow  cycle  of  twelve  hours — grief,  exalta~ 
tion,  hate,  love — no,  not  love — he  had  not  seen  Sarah 
Blackstone. 

Hours  later,  when  he  arose  to  undress,  he  could 


274  IRON 

see  from  the  open  window  the  streets  below,  and  far 
across  the  city,  above  the  silent  houses,  in  the  moon 
light,  the  expansive  fields  and  the  hills  so  enduring 
and  so  still. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  next  morning  Cosmus  donned  his  corduroy 
hunting  suit,  took  his  gun,  and  after  a  light 
breakfast  set  out  to  follow  up  Margaret  Morton's  clue. 
He  stopped  at  the  police  station  and  placed  his  evidence 
before  the  chief.  Contrary  to  his  expectations,  he 
found  the  officer  more  than  interested. 

"I  never  did  believe  that  the  strikers  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  boy's  disappearance.  Kuhns  wouldn't 
have  stood  for  it — it  hain't  like  him  anyway,"  Chief 
Garrigan  said. 

"You  know  him,  then?" 

"Every  one  does." 

"And  the  strike  has  fallen  through  completely?" 

"They  closed  the  Labor  Defense  office  yesterday." 

Chief  Garrigan  was  giving  orders  as  he  spoke,  and 
two  officers  and  a  machine  soon  stood  at  the  door. 
The  men  were  introduced  as  Officer  Clark  and  Officer 
Stillson.  Cosmus  at  once  agreed  with  them  that  they 
should  all  part  company  at  the  Stillwell  farms,  which 
lay  across  the  river  from  the  Country  Club,  and  comb 
the  land  thoroughly  for  sight  of  the  fallen  plane.  All 
three  were  to  keep  in  touch  with  each  other  by  report 
ing  every  hour  or  so  by  rural  telephone  to  Chief  Gar 
rigan. 

Iron  City  was  hardly  awake  when  they  left  the 
town  and  followed  the  winding  river  road  north.  As 
they  climbed  the  ridge  they  saw  across  the  still  water, 
Sill's  factory  smoking  at  their  feet  and  Cosmus  won- 

275 


276  IRON  CITY 

dered  if  Raymond's  father  had  gone  down  to  work 
yet.     Of  what  was  the  great  power  thinking  now? 

Clark  and  Stillson,  not  inclined  to  include  "the  per 
fessor"  in  their  talk,  were  discussing  that  very  point. 

"The  old  man,"  Clark  was  saying,  giving  his  stiff 
thumb  a  jab  toward  the  factory,  "don't  say  much,  but 
I  guess  he  feels  it,  though." 

"I  heard  he  laid  it  on  the  election,"  answered  Still- 
son  maliciously.  "He  thinks  the  world  is  coming  to 
the  end,  now  that  Hughes  got  it  in  the  neck." 

"He  told  Daggett  yesterday  that  he  would  have 
rather  lost  the  strike  than  his  boy." 

"I  suppose  so,  but  he  didn't  bring  him  up  right. 
That  boy  ought  to  have  been  in  France  this  very  day." 

"Then  he  would  have  been  a  sure  enough  goner." 

"But  that's  different." 

The  machine  had  cut  down  through  a  valley  where 
a  few  banks  of  snow  choked  the  hollows,  and  had  left 
the  smoking  factory  behind.  The  morning  was  clear 
and  still,  the  crows  flapped  over  the  brown  fields,  and 
Cosmus  was  conscious  again  of  the  teasing  wires  run 
ning  along  ahead  of  them,  in  undeviating  lines,  on  and 
on.  What  did  the  River  of  Wires  mean  to  him  ?  Was 
this  common  thing  his  beauty?  He  concluded,  "Eve 
ry  one  must  have  his  moments  of  mysticism  and  those 
wires  give  mine  to  me." 

At  the  Stilwell  farms,  the  officers  were  inclined 
to  kid  "the  perfessor"  about  his  gun. 

"Perfessor,"  said  Clark,  "I  have  a  feeling  in  my 
bones  that  you  will  find  the  corpse.  You  won't  get 
scairt,  will  you,  at  the  sight  of  a  body,  being  not  used 
to  it?  A  dead  body  gives  queer  feelings,  you  know." 

"Oh,  you  forget  the  gun,  Stillson,"  put  in  Officer 
Clark. 


IRON  CITY  277 

"If  I  find  it,  gentlemen,  I  shan't  need  the  gun,  you 
know." 

"Save  for  the  crows;  they're  nasty  birds,"  Stillson 
returned. 

"And  say,  Perfessor,  there  are  some  old  quarries 
off  there  near  the  river;  don't  you  be  falling  into  them, 
and  breaking  your  neck." 

Cosmus  replied  pleasantly:  "To  be  frank,  men,  I 
don't  believe  any  of  us  will  find  Raymond.  After  all, 
Miss  Morton  has  very  little  reason  to  believe  she  saw 
the  plane  fall.  It's  what  you  call  a  hunch,  you  know. 
Now,  look,  it  would  be  that  spot  over  yonder,  accord 
ing  to  her  description.  Just  in  line  with  that  old 
sycamore  tree." 

They  made  for  that  section  of  the  field  lying  along 
the  wood,  but  they  saw  only  bare  ground.  Farther 
on  they  saw  something  which  looked  like  debris,  but 
it  proved  to  be  only  an  old  white  log.  They  moved 
off  from  this  center  in  diverging  radii,  scanning  every 
foot  of  ground.  It  was  slow  and  harrowing  work. 
John  could  see  that  the  officers  even  in  spite  of  their 
jocularity  were  sobered  by  the  thought  of  coming 
upon  the  soulless  body  of  a  man.  John  himself  felt 
uncomfortable,  and  the  thought  crossed  his  mind  that 
this  must  be  the  way  scavengers  feel;  crows  were 
flapping  blackly  across  the  white  hollows  of  the  wood. 
He  did  not  allow  the  distaste,  however,  to  decrease 
his  watchfulness.  Conscientiously,  rod  by  rod,  he 
scanned  every  field  and  wood  in  turn,  moving  far  off 
from  the  others  until  about  noon,  when  he  came  upon 
a  farm  house. 

He  entered  and  called  Chief  Garrigan.  The  chief 
advised  him  to  come  in. 

"Clark  and  Stillson  have  been  in  for  half  an  hour," 


278  IRON  CITY 

he  told  Cosmus.  "They  said  that  they  had  combed 
their  two  sections  with  a  fine-toothed  comb,  and  found 
nothing.  We'll  send  a  machine  for  you." 

"Never  mind  about  the  machine  and  tell  Clark," 
Cosmus  replied,  "that  I  was  wise  after  all  about  the 
gun.  For  if  I  can  get  a  bite  to  eat,  I'm  going  hunting. 
I'll  send  him  some  game." 

The  farmer's  wife  had  already  set  out  ham  and 
eggs  and  buckwheat  cakes  with  thick  corn-syrup  on 
the  table,  and  when  Cosmus  had  satisfied  his  hunger, 
he  went  out  into  the  fields  again  with  none  of  his  old 
feelings  of  awe.  He  was  done  with  this  gruesome 
business,  and  the  sun  was  glistening  on  river  and 
field  and  wires  and  he  was  strong. 

As  he  walked  along  he  thought  of  Walt  Kuhns.  He 
must  devise  a  way  of  saving  Kuhns  from  any  impli 
cation  in  a  murder  for  vengeance.  But  how?  He 
racked  his  mind  in  vain.  After  an  hour  of  fruitless 
devising,  under  the  spell  of  rhythmic  walking,  he 
slipped  into  a  more  pleasant  vein  of  thought.  Reced 
ing  far  behind  him  were  the  city,  the  strike,  the  war, 
and  he  carried  something  of  the  sense  of  aloofness  to 
life,  a  mood  which  had  come  to  him  so  vividly  the  night 
before  when  he  had  sat  alone  under  the  sycamore.  He 
saw  that  Walt  Kuhns  was  not  to  be  greatly  pitied 
even  if  the  strike  had  failed,  for  his  day  was  coming, 
was  dawning,  even  as  Sarah  Blackstone  had  declared. 
He  saw,  too,  more  plainly  than  he  ever  had  before, 
that  Kuhns  had  within  himself  the  profound  poten 
tialities  of  happiness.  He  was  self-urged,  and  noth 
ing — no,  not  even  Sill,  or  the  defection  of  the  strikers 
— could  touch  the  leader.  It  seemed,  too,  to  Cosmus 
as  he  recalled  Kuhns — so  noble  in  form — that  nature 
itself  had  favored  this  man  whom  society  had  cast 


IRON  CITY  279 

out.  From  these  thoughts  he  passed  to  Sarah  again. 
He  had  seen  her  only  once  in  the  five  days  since  the 
fracas  at  Boyne's  shops;  she  had  recovered  from  the 
shock  completely,  but  she  was  not  going  back  to 
Boyne's  office.  "I  just  can't,  John,"  she  had  said. 
Cosmus  remembered  these  words  vividly  now,  and 
the  look  of  pure  helplessness  in  her  eyes.  "I've  been 
a  fool,"  he  thought.  "I'll  go  to  her  to-night.  How 
lovely  she  is." 

He  must  have  been  walking  two  hours,  and  he  had 
reached  a  large  knoll;  as  he  looked  back  he  could  see 
no  sign  of  the  city,  but  strange  to  see,  caught  in  the 
contour  of  the  hills,  there  was  the  Country  Club  miles 
away.  And  when  he  turned  to  look  forward  he  saw 
beneath  him  a  road  and  beyond  a  gray  valley,  bare 
save  for  a  great  clump  of  tamarack  trees,  the  kind 
that  appear  occasionally  in  the  Middle  West. 

He  had  not  once  thought  of  Raymond  Sill  or  Mar 
garet  Morton  since  noon.  As  he  came  down  the  knoll, 
he  remembered  them;  but  he  had  dismissed  them 
from  his  mind  again  by  the  time  he  reached  the 
fence  that  bordered  the  road.  There  was  not  a  hu 
man  being  nor  a  house  in  sight.  Gray  stillness — nof 
quite  peace. 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  fence  post,  to  leap  over, 
but  did  not  leap.  A  thought,  irrationally  emerging, 
arrested  him.  It  was  of  America.  He  had  been 
watching  Washington  narrowly  since  the  recent  elec 
tion  of  Mr.  Wilson,  and  he  had  detected  an  unwonted 
nervousness  on  the  part  of  the  administration.  What 
did  it  mean?  Then  the  thought,  which  had  arrested  his 
leap.  "What  if  Germany  resumes  unrestricted  sub 
marine  warfare?"  He  leaned  against  the  post.  "War!. 
But  would  America  be  ready?" 


280  IRON  CITY 

He  clambered  over  the  fence,  and  crossed  the  road, 
for  the  first  time  aware  that  he  was  tired.  If  he 
were  going  to  get  any  game,  he  had  better  get  it 
quickly.  He  decided  to  skirt  the  tamarack  grove  on 
the  left,  but  found  it  much  larger  than  he  had  thought. 
He  left  the  road  behind  and  was  about  to  plunge  into 
the  woods  when  he  came  upon  two  country  boys.  They 
seemed  to  be  doing  nothing. 

"Any  game  hereabouts,  boys?"  he  asked. 

The  older  answered : 

"Yes,  in  the  woods,  but  you  mustn't  go  in." 

"Doesn't  your  father  like  to  have  hunters?" 

"He  don't  care." 

"Then  why  shouldn't  I  go  where  the  game  is?" 

"It's  haunted." 

Cosmus  smiled. 

"Father  told  us  all  about  it.  A  great  white  bird 
was  shot  through  the  heart  while  it  was  still  in  the 
air,  and  when  a  bird  on  the  wing  is  shot  through  the 
heart,  its  body  flies  straight  up  and  its  spirit  comes 
down  to  stay  in  the  woods." 

"But  why  should  I  fear  the  bird?"  John  answered, 
"when  I  want  a  rabbit?  Is  there  a  road  on  the  other 
side  that  will  lead  me  back  to  Iron  City?" 

"Sure,  but  it's  shorter  to  go  back  that  way,"  the 
little  boy  answered,  pointing  over  his  shoulder. 

John  smiled,  and  started  off  pushing  the  bushes 
aside  with  one  arm.  It  was  a  good  place  for  a  ghost, 
— green  and  still,  and  now  snow-covered.  He  had 
not  gone  far  when  suddenly  he  was  out  in  a  circular 
clearing, — and  he  saw  what  he  did  not  want  to  see. 
The  sight  almost  stopped  his  breath.  There  in  the 
white  snow  was  something  not  snow  or  brush,  with 
something  dark  beneath  it. 


IRON  CITY  281 

Shocked,  he  ran  forward.  Raymond  Sill  was  lying 
there.  The  fragile  airship  was  now  but  a  heap  of 
rags  and  staves;  its  occupant  had  evidently  loosened 
the  straps,  which  held  him  in,  and  when  the  machine 
struck,  had  fallen,  dead  before  he  lit,  face  forward, 
one  arm  beneath  his  head  as  if  asleep.  There  was 
something  pathetic  in  the  posture.  Cosmus  bent  over 
the  thing  that  had  been  life.  Raymond's  face  was 
bruised  and  grim  and  terrible. 

The  gun  had  fallen  from  the  hunter's  hand,  and  he 
stood  upright,  wondering  and  helpless.  He  saw  for 
the  first  time  why  men  praise  the  living  after  they 
die.  In  truth  it  is  but  praise  of  death.  This  mysteri 
ous  going-away  of  the  breath,  this  subtle  thieving  of 
motion,  light  and  energy — one  can  not  come  into  the 
presence  of  this  with  evil  upon  his  lips.  Let  the  black 
world  of  wrong  recede  far  away  from  this  all-master 
ing  mystery.  The  hunter  looked  around,  and  was 
aware  of  the  beauty  of  Raymond's  sepulcher.  The 
falling  plane  had  barely  scraped  the  trees  above  and 
brought  the  wayward  occupant  into  a  haven,  still  and 
immortally  green.  But  the  loosened  straps?  Had 
Raymond  taken  his  own  life? 

Cosmus's  thoughts  went  back  to  the  morning,  to 
what  Officer  Stillson  had  said:  "That  boy  ought  to 
have  been  in  France  this  very  day."  That  was  the 
pathos  of  it,  the  pathos  of  unfulfillment.  Raymond, 
the  parasite,  was  parasite  still.  How  different  all 
would  have  been,  if  he  had  been  Pilot  Sill  of  the 
French  Aviation  Corps ! 

These  flashing  thoughts  left  Cosmus  with  the  real 
ization  that  some  one  was  tittering  behind  him. 

Startled,  he  turned;  it  was  only  the  two  boys  he 
had  left  at  the  edge  of  the  wood. 


282  IRON  CITY 

"Does  it  stink?"  they  called,  and  ran  back  tittering. 
But  one  was  pale  and  sick  before  he  reached  the  covert 
of  the  trees. 

"Boys,  boys,"  Cosmus  called,  "have  you  a  phone  at 
your  house?  No,  don't  come  back  here.  Lead  me 
to  it." 

He  glanced  again  at  the  corpse,  and  then  started 
with  the  boys  across  the  fields.  They  did  not  talk 
much.  The  boys  confessed  that  they  had  known  that 
the  body  was  there.  "We  found  it  three  days  ago, 
but  was  afraid  to  tell  Dad,  and  Mother  is  sick  of  the 
fever."  That  was  all. 

The  winter's  day  was  almost  ended  as  they  hurried 
across  the  fields.  The  boys  had  to  run  to  keep  up 
with  Cosmus,  who  was  busy  with  his  own  thoughts. 
His  mind,  though  clear,  was  not  untroubled.  He  was 
thinking;  this  heap  of  rags  and  sticks  and  bones,  was 
this  all  there  was  left  of  the  proud  human  bird,  which 
sat  upon  a  cloud  and  rode  the  ranging  winds?  How 
like  a  fable  of  all  our  civilization;  the  vanity  of  flight; 
the  lofty  fabric  of  man's  scientific  imagination 
brought  down  to  this  overpowering  bathos ! 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  talking  to  Chief  Garrigan. 

"I've  found  him,"  Cosmus  said. 

"What?  The  king  of  the  Jack-Rabbits?"  the  chief 
bellowed  good-naturedly. 

"No,  man,  Raymond  Sill — dead." 

"Honest  to  God?    Where?" 

"At  Burgund's  place  six  miles  west  of  Stillwell 
farms.  Send  an  ambulance  and  help." 

In  two  hours  the  sad  cortege  entered  Iron  City. 
What  the  other  men  thought,  Cosmus  did  not  know, 
but  all  he  could  think  of  was  who  was  to  tell  R.  Sill. 

At  the  police  station,  besides  the  chief  there  was 


IRON  CITY  283 

Margaret,  a  very  pale  and  restrained  Margaret,  and 
her  father,  Carl  Morton,  dim  and  sad. 

"Margaret  thought  that  you  would  find  him,"  Mor 
ton  said,  "though  it  seems  impossible." 

"Has  any  one  telephoned  Mr.  Sill?"  Cosmus  asked. 

The  chief  and  Morton  looked  at  each  other  signifi 
cantly. 

"No  doubt  the  chief  has,"  Margaret  answered. 

"No,"  Carl  Morton  said  slowly,  "I  told  the  chief 
that  I  would  go  up.  Mr.  Sill  has  not  treated  us  well, 
but  he's  a  father,  too,  and  I'm  going  up  to  him." 

Carl  said  to  the  men  hovering  hesitantly  around  the 
back  of  the  ambulance,  "Wait  a  few  minutes,  then 
bring  the  body  to  his  house."  And  Cosmus,  somewhat 
amazed  at  the  turn  events  had  taken,  saw  the  foreman 
fade  away  in  the  gathering  darkness. 

When  he  had  told  the  chief  the  particulars  of  the 
search;  the  accidental  discovery  of  the  body;  when 
he  had  described  the  spot  in  the  tamarack  wood  where 
the  corpse  lay;  retold  the  story  of  the  two  boys;  and 
had  offered  the  hypothesis  of  suicide,  Cosmus  added 
thoughtfully : 

"At  any  rate,  chief,  this  clears  Walt  Kuhns." 

Garrigan's  eyes  met  his  sharply  for  a  moment  and 
turned  away ;  then  he  answered  gruffly, 

"Well,  that  won't  make  a  damned  bit  of  difference 
now — Kuhns  is  dead." 

Cosmus  wanted  to  say  "No,  no,  that's  unfair;  that's 
unjust."  But  he  only  looked  blank  and  asked,  "When? 
How?  I  thought  he  was  getting  along  all  right." 

"Just  kind  o'  faded  away,  I  guess.  A  nurse  found 
him  sitting  up  in  bed,  leaning  against  a  pillow,  stone 
dead,  an  hour  ago." 

"I'll  go  over  there,"  Cosmus  answered. 


284 

On  the  street,  a  few  minutes  after,  he  found  him 
self  caught  in  the  five  o'clock  rush,  but  gratefully  he 
plunged  into  the  current  of  humanity  sweeping  by. 
He  welcomed  the  contact  wlith  lifq.  He  enjoyed 
touching  elbows  with  living  men.  He  delighted  in 
the  faces  of  joy  and  eagerness  flowing  past.  He  felt 
the  old  primordial  joy  of  gregariousness,  the  sense  of 
companionship  in  time  of  trouble,  the  mystic  union 
through  words  unspoken,  or  hands  untouched,  with 
brother  souls  everywhere. 

How  good,  how  common,  how  joyous  was  this 
great  turbulent  sea  of  the  general  life. 

And  for  the  first  time  Iron  City  did  not  seem  in 
different  to  Walt  Kuhns.  It  was  Walt  Kuhns,  and  he 
was  it. 

The  hush  of  carpeted  corridors,  the  swish  of  muffled 
doors,  the  tread  of  padded  feet  at  the  hospital  fell 
upon  his  senses  with  peculiar  poignancy.  It  was  al 
most  as  good  a  place  to  die  in  as  Raymond  had  had 
yonder  in  the  evergreen  grove.  Like  a  shuttle,  Cos- 
mus  was  weaving  these  two  lives,  so  estranged,  to 
gether.  Of  this  office  he  was  conscious.  Some  sud 
den  flood  of  meaning  enveloped  life.  The  events  of 
the  day  were  no  longer  mere  links  in  a  nightmare  of 
death,  but  great  realities.  Are  all  men  thus  lifted  out 
of  the  commonplace  at  sight  of  death? 

A  nurse  explained  to  Cosmus  that  the  hospital  had 
been  trying  to  get  in  touch  with  him  by  telephone  for 
an  hour;  that  Kuhns  had  died  much  as  Chief  Garri- 
gan  had  said.  She  concluded, 

"He  must  have  been  writing  when  his  heart  stopped. 
We  have  left  the  papers  just  as  he  had  arranged  them 
for  you  to  see.  You  can  come  in." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  room,  which  bore  the  plate, 


IRON  CITY  285 

though  Cosmus  did  not  know  it,  "The  gift  of  Reverend 
Hugh  Crandon,  LL.D." 

He  was  grateful  for  the  screens  around  the  bed 
that  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  still  thing  behind.  The 
nurse  left  them  alone. 

Half-guiltily,  he  glanced  at  the  papers.  The)r  did 
not  seem  to  be  of  much  importance,  just  scribblings, 
in  the  nervous,  weak  hand  of  a  sick  man.  One  seemed 
to  be  an  editorial.  It  was  headed, 

"WHO  KEEPS  THE  LAW?" 

Then  followed  a  brief  statement  that  R.  Sill  had 
taken  back  to  his  factory  all  union  men,  provided  they 
made  affidavits  to  the  effect  that  they  had  severed 
their  allegiance  to  any  and  every  labor  organization. 

Following  this,  in  cold  irony,  was  a  section  from 
the  injunction  which  Judge  Dunbar  had  granted  to  R. 
Sill,  which  had  been  served  on  the  strikers  on  that 
fatal  afternoon  of  the  riot. 

"Or  who  shall  coerce  or  compel  any  person  to  enter 
into  an  agreement  not  to  unite  with  or  become  a  mem 
ber  of  any  labor  organization  as  a  condition  of  his 
securing  employment  or  continuing  therein,  shall  be 
punished  by  a  fine  of  not  more  than  $500  nor  less 
than  a  hundred  dollars." 

That  was  all. 

Cosmus  sought  another  page.  Scrawled  feebly 
across  its  face  was — 

"My  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of — " 

The  words  trailed  off  into  indecipherable  marks. 
But  they  had  power  to  recall  to  Cosmus  eight  months 
before,  a  night  when  he  had  heard  a  voice — a  man's 
voice — singing  through  the  darkness.  Had  that  voice 
been  the  voice  of  Walt  Kuhns? 


286  IRON  CITY 

Cosmus  went  softly  into  the  hall  and  found  a  seat 
in  the  shadow,  where  he  could  be  quiet  for  a  moment. 
He  saw  the  nurses,  like  white  dreams,  slipping  silently 
in  and  out  of  rooms.  He  heard  a  suppressed  groan; 
subdued  laughter;  hushed  whispers.  He  caught  the 
cloying  sweet  of  ether.  He  was  bent  on  bringing  his 
mind  back  to  normality,  on  seeing  things  as  it  was 
fitting  for  a  college  professor,  a  student  of  society, 
to  see  them. 

He  was  surprised  to  discover  how  little  he  had  seen 
of  Walt  Kuhns;  he  was  startled  to  find  how  near  the 
man  was  to  him.  That  outlaw  dead  was  to  him  like 
a  brother.  In  his  death  there  was  no  pain,  only  the 
full  sense  of  possession,  of  having  gained  something. 
He  remembered  the  first  time  he  had  seen  Kuhns  at 
the  factory,  cursing;  he  remembered  the  man's  in 
ability  to  remember  his  name;  "Comer"  he  would  say 
invariably  instead  of  Cosmus;  he  recalled  his  passion 
ate  allegiance  to  his  Master;  his  patience,  his  capacity 
for  indignation,  his  cool  logic,  courage  and  fairness; 
he  remembered  his  eloquent  face  with  the  scar,  and  the 
crown  of  gray  hair.  Cosmus  found  that  he  knew 
this  man  better  than  he  knew  all  his  colleagues  at  the 
college  with  whom  he  had  daily  intercourse.  What 
was  Walt  Kuhns's  power?  Was  it  giving  all  he  had 
for  a  cause?  And  his  charm?  That  was  a  deeper 
problem  which  belonged  to  the  incalculable  powers 
of  personality.  But  it  was  probably  his  gift  for  gre- 
gariousness.  He  knew  better  than  all  other  men  the 
common  touch.  And  the  common  touch?  Who  had 
it?  Who,  in  this  onrushing  age  of  cities  and  inter 
nationalism,  dare  be  without  it? 

Cosmus's  meditations  were  broken  by  the  shriek 
ing  of  factory  whistles.  They  drove  into  that  sub- 


IRON  CITY  287 

jective  world  of  his  the  iron  wedge  of  reality.  Who 
dare  be  without  the  common  touch  ?  Such  men  as  R. 
Sill  and  Hugh  Crandon?  He,  Cosmus,  himself  lacked 
it  pitiably.  He  himself  lacked  all  of  Kuhns's  virtues, 
his  passionate  surrender  to  a  cause,  his  gift  for  gre- 
gariousness.  But  he  would  lack  them  no  more.  He 
could  give  something,  too,  to  the  age  that  was  yet  to 
come. 

It  was  about  5  130 ;  there  was  a  faculty  meeting  that 
night,  and  he  had  time  to  bring  Walt  Kuhns  to  Cran 
don  HilL 

As  he  went  down  the  hospital  steps,  he  met  a  line 
of  workmen  from  the  factory,  and  they  seemed,  too, 
almost  like  brother  men. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

JUST  as  he  was,  in  hunting  suit  of  corduroy,  fresh 
from  the  deaths  of  Raymond  Sill  and  Walt 
Kuhns,  with  their  profound  significance,  John  Cos- 
mus  entered  the  meeting  of  Crandon  Hill's  faculty. 
He  was  unaware  that  his  tardiness  and  unusual  cos 
tume  and  his  eerie  appearance  seemed  singularly  out 
of  place  in  that  dignified  assembly.  He  had  forgotten 
completely  about  them.  He  sat  down  in  an  obscure 
corner  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts,  staring  some 
what  blankly  at  the  painting  of  Professor  Mather,  de 
ceased,  lately  added  to  the  walls,  beside  those  dim 
Puritanic  faces  of  the  other  Mather,  first  president, 
and  the  old  philosopher,  Professor  Jason.  To  Cos- 
mus,  there  was  encouragement  in  the  benignant  face 
of  Professor  Mather. 

Across  the  room,  Dean  Georgia  Summers  was  whis 
pering  to  her  neighbor,  "It  was  just  like  that  Mr. 
Cosmus  to  plan  this  dramatic  entrance.  He  is  always 
seeking  the  unusual." 

For  a  moment  Cosmus  thought  that  the  faculty  had 
deviated  into  a  discussion  of  some  essentials  of  educa 
tion,  for  he  heard  many  grandiloquent  words  concern 
ing  the  "welfare  of  our  students,"  the  "psychic  factors 
in  education,"  "the  amenities  of  human  life,"  "the 
sine  qua  non  and  raison  d'etre  of."  But  as 
he  became  more  familiar  with  the  controversy,  and 
as  his  mind  lost  the  edge  of  its  excitement,  he  dis 
covered  that  the  question  in  hand  was  whether  class- 

288 


IRON  CITY  289 

bells  should  ring  ten  or  seven  minutes  before  the  hour. 
Over  this  all-important  question,  the  faculty  of  the 
college  was  divided,  and  the  learned  school  men  were 
having  the  time  of  their  lives.  The  somewhat  fragile 
nature  of  the  subject  did  not  deter  them ;  they  showed 
no  pity;  they  allowed  the  glitter  of  their  minds  to  play 
in  and  out  of  the  delicate  fabric  with  all  the  brilliancy 
of  fine  needle-like  instruments. 

Cosmus  heard  explained  the  science  of  bell-ringing, 
the  philosophy  of  bell-ringing,  the  psychology  of  bell- 
ringing  and  the  social  etiquette  of  bell-ringing.  No 
one  could  question  the  excellence  of  the  minds  thus 
employed ;  here  was  masterful  logic,  splendid  imagery, 
and  subtle  reasoning.  Here  was  the  learning  of  twen 
ty  centuries,  lifted  to  a  crowning  height  by  the  sheer 
intellectual  force  of  thirty  well-trained  intellects,  and 
dashed  upon — a  flea.  It  was  as  if  Darwin  were  writ 
ing  his  immortal  book  on  whether  five  or  six  o'clock 
was  the  best  time  for  dinner;  it  was  as  if  Plato,  lost 
in  the  maze  of  scholasticism,  were  discussing  the  ques 
tion  of  how  many  devils  may  dance  on  the  point  of  a 
needle;  or  as  if  Jesus  were  sitting  with  the  Pharisees 
in  the  temple  drawing  up  a  code  forbidding  the  pluck 
ing  of  corn  on  the  Sabbath.  It  was  all  of  this  and 
more.  It  was  solemn,  it  was  pompous,  and  bitter — 
with  never  a  glint  of  the  salt  of  humor. 

But  human  nature  is  not  made  of  iron,  and  after  a 
while  the  contestants  wore  themselves  out,  and  the 
ball  of  controversy,  put  so  vigorously  into  play,  came 
back  to  rest.  The  resolution  was  laid  on  the  table. 

Then  President  Crandon,  who  had  sat  quietly 
through  the  debate,  asked  passively  if  there  were  any 
more  business.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence  in 
which  Cosmus  suddenly  found  himself  upon  his  feet 


290  IRON  CITY 

looking  around  into  the  faces  of  his  colleagues.  They 
were  not  sympathetic  faces  nor  even  comprehending 
faces;  most  of  them  were  openly  hostile  or  contemptu 
ous.  And  for  a  minute,  he  looked  uncertainly  and 
timidly  around,  as  persons  acting  upon  impulse  often 
do  when  facing  an  audience,  and  found  himself  won 
dering  foolishly  and  futilely,  "Why  am  I  standing  up 
here?"  And  he  moistened  his  lips  and  said  nothing. 

But  President  Crandon  had  recognized  him.  Then, 
gasping  as  one  suddenly  plunged  into  cold  water,  Cos- 
mus  began  to  speak  quite  automatically  and  with  the 
first  word,  uncertainty  in  his  mind,  like  clouds,  rolled 
back  and  disclosed  a  discourse  so  orderly  in  plan  that 
he  was  surprised  that  it  was  his. 

With  the  first  sentence,  he  regained  assurance,  and 
when  Professor  Erickson,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  began  to  whisper  and  titter,  he  stopped  short 
and  said : 

"Mr.  President,  have  I  the  floor?" 

"You  have." 

"Then,  if  I  am  disturbed  again,  I  shall  take  the  in 
terruption  as  a  personal  insult,  and  by  all  that's  de 
cent,  I'll  act  accordingly." 

There  was  no  more  disturbance. 

It  was  not  an  oration  that  Cosmus  was  giving,  but 
a  plain  talk.  It  lacked  the  polish  of  either  Pro 
fessor  Clarke's  or  Professor  Erickson's  set  speeches. 
Often  it  was  disjointed,  but  as  he  progressed  he  found 
that  they  were  listening — in  spite  of  themselves. 

*  "Fellow-teachers,  Americans,"  he  began.     "Gold- 
miners  in  the  Klondyke  fields  of  Alaska  have  looked 
across  the  frozen  thread  of  Behring  Strait,  this  winter, 

*  There  is  here  no  attempt  to  report  John  Cosmus's  speech 
in  full. 


IRON  CITY  291 

and  seen  the  great  plains  of  Siberia  towering  away 
in  the  distance.  The  farthest  verge — the  last  frontier 
— of  this  new  world  has  suddenly  come  upon  the  back 
door  of  the  old;  and  for  once,  for  the  first  time,  in 
the  history  of  mankind,  we  are  one  world  geographic 
ally.  The  frontiers  of  the  world  are  gone.  Where  are 
the  New  Zealands,  the  Australias,  the  West  of  these 
United  States?  Where  are  the  new  worlds  for  Eu 
rope?  Suddenly  we  people  of  this  age  are  turned  in 
upon  ourselves,  face  to  face  with  the  problem  of 
human  relationships.  No  more,  as  our  fathers  did, 
can  the  democrat  secede  from  a  native  autocracy  and 
seek  a  new  world,  there  to  build  a  happier  home.  De 
mocracy,  liberalism,  cooperation — all  the  virtues  of 
the  pioneer — must  fight  now  for  existence  throughout 
the  world.  The  frontiers  are  gone! 

"Geographically  one,  the  states  of  the  world  are 
also  a  commercial  unit.  Interlocking  directorates, 
vast  shipping  interests,  swift  couriers  of  electricity 
and  steam,  a  flood  of  books,  explorers  and  travelers, 
have  leveled  all  distances  and  made  Pekin  a  suburb 
of  London. 

"We  citizens  of  Iron  City — God  help  us — have 
been  given  not  a  town  but  a  world  to  live  in.  The 
citizens  of  Berlin,  Hull  and  Bordeaux  have  been  given 
the  same  world." 

He  paused  and  was  aware  of  the  stillness  of  the 
room,  and  he  wondered  why  his  hearers  did  not  in 
terrupt.  Their  faces  showed  displeasure ;  but  no  sound 
came  from  them.  The  president  lounged  tolerantly 
in  his  deep  armchair. 

"And  we  have  no  more  known  how  to  adjust  our 
selves  to  world-relationships  than  children  would.  The 
world  is  geographically,  commercially  one,  but  the 


292  IRON  CITY 

world's  people  are  more  various  than  the  world's  races. 
They  are  separated  by  corroding  prejudice,  and  su 
perstition,  by  medieval  symbolism  and  prehistoric  im 
pulses,  by  barbaric  ideals  and  predatory  interests.  The 
art  of  erecting  bonds  between  men,  which  is  educa 
tion,  has  not  yet  kept  pace  with  the  art  of  destroying 
barriers  between  men,  which  is  science  applied. 

"In  the  first  experiment  of  living  together  we  have 
failed  utterly,  failed  miserably,  made  angels  weep,  and 
fallen  to  scrapping  like  school  boys  over  the  ruins  of 
the  world. 

"For  Germany,  the  bully,  with  all  gift  for  organiza 
tion,  has  learned  first  how  to  live  in  gangs.  An  ex 
pert  in  socialization,  it  has  socialized  more  error  than 
truth.  A  super-trust,  it  would  monopolize  all  trade. 
A  great  community,  it  would  Germanize  the  universe 
by  means  of  the  sword.  It  is  the  narrow,  local  mind 
of  the  villege  butcher  nationalized.  It  is  the  apotheo 
sis  of  class-thinking.  It  is  the  dog-in-the-manger  try 
ing  to  ascend  a  world  throne." 

Here  a  thin  rustle  of  applause  blew  about  the  room. 
The  audience  seemed  less  impatient,  less  hostile,  but 
only  for  a  moment. 

"But  not  all  Prussians  live  in  Germany,  not  all 
Prussians  are  Prussians  by  blood.  We  have  Prus 
sians  in  Iron  City,  in  America.  All  men  who  stand 
for  class  are  Prussians.  The  misguided  manufactur 
ers,  who  broke  the  strike  with  the  heavy  rod  of  priv 
ileged  law,  and  destroyed  Walt  Kuhns,  are  Prussians. 
We  who  in  our  Pharisaism  closed  Dover  Street  to 
the  traffic  of  aliens  are  Prussians.  All  men  who  are 
not  respecters  of  human  personality  of  whatever  color, 
custom,  race  or  religion  are  Prussians." 

Dean  Georgia  Summers  was  fumbling  with  her  hat ; 


IRON  CITY,  293 

Professor  Erickson  was  drumming  almost  audibly 
upon  his  teeth  with  the  frayed  end  of  a  lead  pencil; 
President  Hugh  Crandon  was  sitting  up  straight — 
with  flushed  face.  But  no  one  interrupted. 

"It  is  plain,  gentlemen,  that  what  is  needed  is  a  deep 
abiding  liberalism — a  flood  of  ideas — of  truth — that 
will  make  class-mindedness  impossible.  We  must 
erect  bonds  between  men  as  fast  as  science  destroys 
barriers.  We  must  increase  justice.  We  must  lay 
bare  the  sham  of  democracy,  the  hypocrisy,  that  makes 
us  talk  of  the  land  of  the  free  and  then  deprives  men, 
however  humble,  of  the  right  of  free  labor.  Our  only 
hope  is  to  make  our  colleges  evangels  of  world-mind- 
edness." 

Cosmus  saw  Professor  Clarke  raise  his  head  as  if 
to  deny,  and  his  hands  twitch  nervously. 

"Ah,  yes,  we  speak  of  liberal  education,  better  say 
illiberal.  How  can  this  college  be  liberal,  when  R. 
Sill,,  if  not  in  name,  is  in  actuality  the  president  of 
this  institution?  How  can  the  Crandon  Hill  of  Pro 
fessor  Mather  be  liberal  if  it  closes  its  gates  to  Serb 
and  Slav  and  Italian  because  they  are  not  New  Eng 
land  born?  Are  we  the  protector  or  betrayer  of  the 
average  mind? 

"We  are  seeing  this  world  thrown  into  a  crucible, 
the  old  barriers  leveled,  the  old  lines  erased,  and  we 
are  presuming  that  the  world  will  come  out  with  pretty 
much  the  same  patterns  traced  upon  its  face.  It  can 
not ;  it  will  not.  All  the  barriers  of  race,  color,  geog 
raphy  will  be  burned  away.  Out  of  this  world  war 
will  come  just  two  peoples — the  people  who  believe  in 
all,  and  the  people  who  believe  in  cliques;  the  liberal 
minded  and  the  class-minded ;  the  kaisers  like  R.  Sill, 
and  the  common  man  like  Walt  Kuhns.  Out  of  the 


294  IRON  CITY 

world  struggle  will  come  one  or  the  other — as  victor. 

"Americans,  it  lies  with  Crandon  Hill  College  to 
bring  the  world  to  Iron  City.  Provincialism,  once 
the  virtue  of  American  life,  is  now  its  curse.  If  Amer 
ica  is  to  endure,  it  must  leave  America  and  go  over 
to  the  world.  We  keepers  of  ideas  must  forsake  ma 
chine-made  formalism  and  go  over  to  life.  We  must 
forsake  the  past  and  go  over  to  the  future.  Yes, 
gentlemen  of  the  faculty,  we  must  adopt  the  Chautau- 
qua  brand  of  education,  if  that  means  reaching  the 
people  with  world-ideas,  for  on  such  education  real 
and  not  fancied  democracy  depends." 

He  paused,  there  was  a  rustle  of  skirts  and  Dean 
Georgia  Summers  had  haughtily  swept  out  of  the 
room.  The  speaker  grew  confused,  groped  for  some 
conclusion,  failed,  and  sat  down  glowing  with  an  in 
ward  sense  of  relief. 

"Any  further  business?"  snapped  President  Cran 
don. 

"Mr.  President,  I  move  we  adjourn."  The  voice  of 
Erickson  was  impatient  and  severe. 

The  motion  was  seconded,  and  before  it  could  be 
formally  put,  every  member  of  Crandon  Hill's  faculty 
fled  out  of  the  room  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at 
John  Cosmus.  Once  Cosmus  caught  the  eye  of  Pro 
fessor  James,  disciple  of  Dewey,  flashing  encourage 
ment;  but  the  little  professor,  too,  passed  out. 

"Five  children  and  a  debt  on  a  house  make  a  man 
cautious  of  expressing  opinions.  Thank  God!  I'm 
free,"  thought  Cosmus.  Then  he  was  alone. 

But  with  solitariness  came  reaction.  He  felt  lonely 
and  useless.  All  action  seemed  futile.  He  sat  down 
in  the  empty  room  foolishly  staring  at  his  hands,  and 
past  them  to  the  hunting  suit;  in  that  moment  he  got 


IRON  CITY  295 

the  other  man's  point  of  view.  He  saw  the  faculty 
as  they  streamed  out  into  the  dark,  warm  with  the 
sense  of  well-being;  he  experienced  with  them  the 
acute  sense  of  difference  between  them  and  him;  he 
saw  them  as  they  saw  themselves,  the  tried  guardians 
of  the  tried,  backed  by  the  authority  of  the  past  and 
the  prestige  of  the  great  universities,  and  of  public 
opinion;  he  saw  them  glowing  in  the  sense  of  com 
radeship,  arm  in  arm,  thirty  to  one,  sneering  and  in 
dignant.  He  could  hear  them  say,  "How  utterly 
sophomoric."  He  saw  himself  in  contrast  a  mere 
boy  projecting  an  untried  revolutionary  scheme.  No 
wonder  he  had  failed ;  the  difference  made  him  laugh. 
Some  day,  he  consoled  himself,  some  great  crisis  will 
shake  them  out  of  their  lethargy. 

He  found  his  hat,  and  went  out.  Loneliness  did 
not  disappear  in  the  darkness.  In  his  mind,  he  fol 
lowed  his  colleagues  home  to  smiling  wives  and  cheer 
ful  hearths ;  and  the  thought  did  not  make  him  strong 
er.  Did  it  pay?  Did  discrimination  pay?  Long  ago, 
he  might  have  been  on  the  road  to  a  scholarly,  clois 
tered  life,  with  no  problems,  save  lovely  hypothetical 
problems  of  pure  mathematics.  And  a  wife. 

Like  a  sensible  young  man,  realizing  that  he  was 
hungry,  famishing,  he  went  not  to  the  little  Bohemian 
cafe  where  he  and  Sarah  had  had  so  many  cups  of 
tea,  but  to  the  hotel  and  ate  as  youth  should.  After 
this  meal,  in  spite  of  languor  of  body  and  mind,  he 
went  out  into  the  streets  again,  because  he  could  not 
face  his  lonely  room.  He  went  straight  to  Sarah's 
house.  She  alone  seemed  capable  of  destroying  this 
loneliness,  and  of  uniting  him  with  men  again.  He 
would  be  very  kind  to  Sarah  to-night.  With  this  re 
solve,  he  ran  up  the  steps  and  impatiently  rang  the 


296  IRON  CITY 

bell.  He  could  not  believe  what  the  woman  who 
opened  the  door  told  him — that  Sarah  had  left  town. 

"She  has  gone  to  Chicago,  I  think,"  she  added,  "as 
much  as  three  days  ago." 

Cosmus  stood  a  moment  indecisively  at  the  gate, 
smiled,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  softly  to 
himself,  "Damned  if  I  care."  But  care  he  did;  before 
he  reached  his  room,  he  had  resolved  to  go  to  France. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THERE  were  two  funerals  in  Iron  City  on  the 
same  day.  R.  Sill,  with  Carl  Morton  and  Mar 
garet,  sat  together  before  the  great  crowd  at  the  First 
Church,  mourning  Raymond.  His  funeral  was  the 
most  costly  and  grand  Iron  City  had  ever  seen.  There 
was  pomp  and  ritual. 

Out  Osgood  way,  Walt  Kuhns  was  buried  in  the 
negro  cemetery.  Cosmus  went.  There  he  met  for 
the  first  time,  Alary,  the  Lithuanian  woman,  Duke, 
the  negro  statesman,  Grover,  and  Jerry  Mulvaney. 
There  were  many  others  whom  Cosmus  did  not  meet 
or  know;  he  had  not  realized  before  that  there  were 
so  many  strange  faces  in  Iron  City.  Girls,  who  looked 
as  if  they  were  stenographers,  or  shop  clerks;  men 
who  might  have  been  bookkeepers ;  the  entire  chapters 
of  the  carpenters,  barbers  and  tinsmiths  unions ;  scores 
and  scores  of  workmen  from  Sill's  plant,  which  had 
shut  down  in  honor  of  Raymond;  every  one  of  the 
city's  thirty  nationalities  was  represented ;  a  few  mer 
chants;  these  made  up  the  assembly.  They  stood  with 
uncovered  heads  out  under  the  gray  sky,  and  listened 
to  a  deacon  in  the  Greek  church  chant  a  simple  requi 
em.  A  chorus  of  men's  voices  sang  "My  eyes  have 
seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord." 

Jerry  Mulvaney,  a  chastened  and  sombered  Mulva 
ney,  in  a  melodious  voice  read  a  psalm,  and  a  verse  or 
two  "from  a  poet,"  he  said;  Cosmus  recognized  the 
lines  as  Whitman's  "I  Dreamed  in  a  Dream."  That 

297 


298  IRON  CITY 

was  all.  No,  not  quite  all.  In  truth,  there  was  no 
pomp  and  ritual  but  every  love  has  its  ritual,  and  the 
love  of  these  men  for  Walt  Kuhns  expressed  itself  in 
a  rite,  which  may  have  lacked  beauty,  but  not  sincerity 
or  dignity.  As  the  plain  coffin  was  lowered  into  the 
grave,  Jerry  Mulvaney  said : 

"Friends  of  Walt  Kuhns,  in  recognition  of  his  serv 
ices  to  us  all,  and  in  the  faith  in  him  and  in  his  cause, 
with  its  ultimate  triumph,  I  have  pleasure  to  inform 
you  that  I  have  here  for  distribution  mementoes  of 
our  noble  and  honored  brother." 

With  that  he  distributed  from  a  basket  into  eager 
hands  buttons  from  Walt  Kuhns's  coat,  locks  of  hair 
and  other  souvenirs.  Then  the  damp  sand  was  dashed 
upon  the  coffin,  and  the  crowd  solemnly  dispersed. 

As  Cosmus  turned  away,  with  the  full  sense  of 
Kuhns's  final  triumph,  Jerry  Mulvaney  whispered  in 
his  ear. 

"Say,  Professor,  we've  handled  Daggett  all  right. 
He  is  on  his  way  now  by  foot  to  Dayton,  where  he 
can  find  fellows  more  to  his  liking." 

That  night,  on  his  return  to  town,  John  Cosmus 
wrote  the  following  letter  to  Sarah  Blackstone: 

Dear  Sarah, 

(That  was  the  first  and  fifth  salutation  that  he  had 
penned.  The  other  three  were,  "Dear  Playmate,"  "Dear 
Friend,"  "Sweetheart."  The  separate  notes  to  each  salu 
tation  were  in  harmony  with  the  keynotes  he  struck.) 

I  was  surprised  to  hear  that  you  had  left  Iron  City, 
and  I  am  writing  to  ask  if  you  are  to  return.  If  so, 
when? 

You  will  be  interested  to  know  that  I  have  made  my 
one  grand  effort  "to  make  them  see,"  and  that  I  have 
failed.  Now  Iron  City  is  a  tomb. 


IRON  CITY  299 

There  seems  nothing  for  me  to  do,  but  go  to  France. 
But  before  I  go,  I  must  see  you. 

Yours  ever, 

COSMUS. 

He  waited  three  days  for  an  answer,  and  then  he 
wrote  again. 

In  those  three  days  he  tasted  the  bitter  fruit  of  so 
cial  ostracism.  The  boycott  set  up  by  his  colleagues, 
on  the  evening  of  his  talk  at  faculty  meeting,  was  of 
long  duration.  At  first  Cosmus  tried  to  convince  him 
self  that  the  coldness  he  detected  in  his  acquaintances 
was  fancied,  a  projection  of  his  own  mood.  But  after 
he  had  tried  to  break  through  it  several  times,  he  could 
not  doubt  its  reality,  or  its  sharpness.  Nothing  was 
going  to  happen  as  a  result  of  his  speech,  save  ostra 
cism,  and  that  was  worse  than  open  hostility. 

Cosmus  was  hardly  honest  enough  to  acknowledge 
the  justice  of  this  punishment.  He  did  not  at  once 
see  that  he  had  boldly  cut  across  the  precious  bonds 
of  class,  and  yet  that  he  still  expected  his  colleagues 
to  include  him  amicably  in  the  pleasant  circle  of  social 
relationships.  He  had  failed  to  show  proper  respect 
for  the  age  and  honored  service  of  Reverend  Hugh 
Crandon,  president  of  the  college.  He,  a  mere  youth, 
a  teacher  with  only  an  instructor's  rank,  had  taken 
upon  himself  to  instruct  his  superiors  and  seniors.  To 
his  colleagues,  he  was  a  kind  of  vagrant,  tramping  the 
highways  of  the  world,  indifferent  to  the  ties  of  fam 
ily,  church  and  state.  To  them,  he  seemed  intent 
merely  on  destroying,  not  on  creating.  Suspicious 
ever  of  ideas,  they  suspected  the  bearer  of  them.  They 
could  not  exonerate  him  from  ulterior  selfish  motives. 
And  yet,  they  were  not  strong  enough ;  they  were  too 
thin  and  watery  in  feeling,  too  utterly  lacking  in  con- 


300  IRON  CITY 

viction,  to  strike  at  him  openly,  and  to  dislodge  him. 
There  might  be  something  in  what  he  said  after  all! 

Cosmus  was  in  danger,  too,  he  saw  now,  of  becom 
ing  a  mere  Abstraction,  a  thin  bloodless  Idea  striding 
menacingly  across  the  world.  That  was  the  trouble  of 
espousing  principles,  one  was  likely  to  forget  all  hu 
man  ties,  all  the  lovely,  joyous  personal  relationships 
which  made  life  not  a  mere  battle,  but  a  song. 

He  might  have  known  the  passion  of  sacrifice  for  a 
cause;  or  the  brotherly  abnegation  that  a  comrade 
might  lift  the  flag  one  hillock  higher;  or  the  solemn 
lunacy  of  surrender  to  an  ideal  beyond  greed  and 
grasp;  but  could  he  know  the  exquisite  spirit  of  sit- 
and-talk,  which  unites  friends,  the  gentle  blending  of 
spirit  in  spirit,  which  is  the  fine  flavor  of  all  family 
companionship?  There  was  Ezra  Kimbark,  cut  off 
from  him  too  completely  by  a  devotion  to  a  romantic 
past,  and  Walt  Kuhns,  dead  before  his  time;  had  he 
made  enough  of  these  chances  for  human  compan 
ionship  ? 

By  some  such  reflections  as  these,  Cosmus  came  to 
see,  by  means  of  the  truly  painful  ostracism  of  his 
professional  coworkers,  something  of  what  he  was 
missing,  and  when  he  did  see  it,  he  was  filled  with 
bitter  remorse  that  he  had  not  bound  Sarah  Black- 
stone  to  him  by  more  lasting  filaments  of  friendship. 
Passion — the  warm  grasp  of  hands,  the  impact  of 
lips — these  are  the  winged  messengers  of  the  intel 
lect  and  soul,  and  these  must  leap  between  lovers  be 
fore  they  really  may  become  friends, 

He  recalled  all  the  happy  moments  he  had  spent 
with  Sarah  and  he  remembered  with  positive  pain  the 
many  times  when  her  joyous,  child-like  spirit  had 


IRON  CITY  301 

seemed  crushed  by  the  too  weighty  problems  of  the 
world,  which  he  had  mercilessly  laid  upon  it. 

"Sarah,  Sarah,"  he  thought.  "Have  you  been  a 
child  all  this  time,  longing  for  play  and  laughter?" 

He  knew  that  it  was  more  necessary  than  ever  that 
he  see  Sarah  Blackstone  before  he  went  to  France,  but 
all  he  could  do  was  to  wait  and  suffer,  for  much  gen 
uine  misery  is  wrapped  up  in  thwarted  social  instincts. 
He  had  almost  decided  to  go  to  Chicago  and  seek  her 
when  he  received  a  note,  postmarked  Iron  City,  stat 
ing  that  she  was  at  the  home  of  Mother  Curtis. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

T  JUST  ran  away  from  all  this,"  Sarah  said  simply. 
She  and  John  stood  on  a  hill  which  had  not  yet 
lost  all  its  heritage  of  winter  snow,  overlooking  the 
city.  The  slate  hues  of  a  March  twilight  were  sifting 
down  over  the  spires  and  stacks  of  the  town;  to  the 
north  the  sky  was  all  red — almost  like  blood — from 
the  furnace  fires  of  the  Sill  plant.  They  could  see 
railroad  trains  and  interurban  cars  slip  in  and  out 
among  the  trees,  and  farther  on,  disappear  into  the 
precincts  of  the  town  itself,  but  they  did  not  catch 
the  murmur  of  traffic  or  industry  where  they  stood. 
All  was  silence,  peace. 

Sarah  finished,  "though  I  must  confess  that  it  does 
not  look  so  hideous  now  from  the  hill." 

"It  never  seemed  so  beautiful  to  me,"  answered 
John. 

He  glanced  at  her  questioningly.  Somehow  their 
first  walk,  since  her  return,  had  not  been  a  complete 
success.  He  had  not  found  it  easy — no,  not  so  easy 
as  formerly — to  confide  in  her.  Constraint  tied  their 
tongues,  and  missing  the  speech  of  hands  intertwined, 
these  two  speechless  lovers  were  tossed  rudderless 
upon  the  untried  sea  of  passion.  This  afternoon  they 
had  not  welcomed  silences.  So  Sarah  was  saying 
hastily : 

"I  just  had  to  hear  some  good  music.  Do  you 
realize  that  music,  the  one  art  that  is  peculiarly  non- 
class,  is  wholly  a  class  project  in  America?  One  can't 

302 


IRON  CITY  303 

hear  anything  save  ragtime  outside  of  the  large  cen 
ters." 

John  was  not  especially  interested  in  sociology  at 
that  moment. 

"Some  day,"  she  continued,  "the  government  will 
realize  that  it  is  more  essential  to  control  the  arts — 
music  and  the  drama — for  its  people  than  it  is  to 
carry  mail." 

He  nodded  assent,  absentmindedly,  wondering  if 
he  and  she  would  ever  find  that  moment  of  under 
standing  for  which  he  knew  they  were  both  groping. 
And  he  despaired.  She  seemed  too  impersonal;  and 
yet,  he  could  vividly  recall  those  moments  in  the  past 
when  their  spirits  somehow  had  met  and  merged.  She 
seemed  to  be  the  only  human  being  who  shared  with 
him  union  with  the  general  life.  Perhaps  that  was 
all.  Perhaps  Sarah  was  just  another  comrade  like 
Walt  Kuhns? 

She  was  saying,  "How  dark  it  is  already.  Hadn't 
we  better  be  going?" 

"I  suppose  we  had." 

It  was  over  then?  This  was  the  end?  He  looked 
away  from  the  town  across  the  fields,  and  suddenly 
his  eye  was  arrested  by  a  path  which  led  to  the  wooded 
hills  beyond.  It  seemed  to  invite  exploration  and  to 
offer  escape  from  the  town  and  problems  into  the 
passionate  quietude  of  love. 

"Are  you  tired?"  he  asked. 

"No,  but  I  thought  you  were — of  my  talk." 

He  ignored  her  petulance. 

"Let's  stay  out  a  while  longer,  then.  Will  you, 
Sarah?" 

"If  you  want  to." 

And  so  they  turned  to  take  the  path. 


304  IRON  CITY 

Sarah  was  vaguely  angry  and  hurt.  In  fact,  with 
out  in  the  least  understanding  the  dark  tangle  of  her 
own  moods  and  impulses,  she  felt  deep  resentment  to 
ward  Cosmus.  He  seemed  to  hurt  her  intentionally. 
He  was  entirely  self-centered,  and  at  times  she  was 
almost  certain  that  his  passion  for  people  was  just 
another  manifestation  of  his  selfishness.  This  accusa 
tion  was  going  pretty  far,  and  she  was  wise  enough 
to  count  it  a  momentary  aberration  of  mind,  but  she 
did  not  know  that  it  was  due  to  some  stirrings  of  the 
thwarted  sex  self  deep  down  in  the  folds  of  personal 
ity.  No  woman  can  be  won  by  an  abstraction.  Ar 
thur  or  Launcelot?  Inevitably  Guinevere  will  make 
the  age-old  choice.  For  the  tragedy  which  shadowed 
these  two  young  persons  as  they  followed  the  path 
together  in  the  fast  falling  twilight  was  not  new ;  other 
souls  best  capable  of  being  friends  have  been  tragically 
incapable  of  mastering  the  intricate  riddle  of  sex. 

As  they  tramped  the  hills,  something  in  the  mysttry 
of  dawning  spring,  innate  in  the  dying  winter,  the 
shell-gray  sky,  trees  soft  with  mystery,  gave  a  flutter 
ing  promise  of  better  things.  For  the  first  time  that 
day  they  found  silence  unembarrassing,  and  when 
they  spoke,  it  was  with  the  consciousness  of  intimacy. 
To  them,  it  seemed  in  this  new  mood  as  if  just  beyond 
the  hill,  at  the  end  of  this  staggering  path,  a  new 
world  lay — a  world  of  certitude,  and  smiles,  the  haven 
of  lost  and  forgotten  things.  But  when  they  had 
nearly  brushed  its  domain  with  their  feet,  they,  not 
it,  fled  away  into  the  work-a-day  world.  Sarah  broke 
the  silence. 

"I  wonder  if  the  war  will  ever  stop?" 

"Did  you  see  to-day's  paper?" 

"Yes." 


IRON  CITY,  305 

"It  looks  as  though  we  should  get  into  it,"  Cosmus 
said  thoughtfully. 

"John,"  she  answered  gravely,  "I  think  I  should 
be  glad,  for  them  and  for  us." 

"Yes?"  he  answered  uncertainly. 

"Have  you  ever  sung  in  a  large  chorus,  and  ex 
pressed  yourself  through  some  great  harmony  fully, 
in  unison  with  many  other  voices  of  your  kind?  There 
is  no  other  emotion  like  it.  It  has  nothing  in  common 
with  the  herd-instinct  of  fear;  it  is  sublime,  cleansing, 
empowering.  That,  I  fancy,  is  what  war  is  like.  The 
mistake  that  the  pacifists  make — is  that  they  have  asso 
ciated  patriotism  with  the  vulgar  herd-instinct,  not 
with  this  choral  experience." 

"In  spite  of  the  horror  and  blood?" 

"In  spite  of  the  horror  and  the  blood,"  she  an 
swered. 

They  had  entered  the  wood,  and  they  seemed  to 
have  passed  suddenly  into  darkness.  They  lost  the 
path  and  dropped  into  an  unfamiliar  land,  a  land  of 
rolling  hills  and  many  valleys,  out  of  sight  of  town 
and  all  human  habitation.  They  turned  to  retrace 
their  steps,  but  in  the  darkness,  they  found  themselves 
walled  in  by  rough  hills  carrying  the  sound  of  falling 
water.  They  came  together  by  instinct  and  grasped 
hands,  and  walked  breathlessly  in  silence.  Were  they 
lost?  They  fumbled  about  here  and  there,  hoping  to 
find  the  opening  that  had  let  them  into  this  unfamiliar 
land.  They  grew  confused,  and  tried  to  resume  their 
conversation  where  they  had  left  it,  each  hoping  to 
hide  from  the  other  the  concern  that  was  rising  in 
their  minds. 

"And  you  really  think  war  a  good  thing?"  John 
asked  coolly. 


306  IRON  CITY 

"Of  course  not.  How  could  I?  It  is  hideous.  But 
it  does  bring  the  sluggish  mind  into  contact  with  the 
general  life." 

They  stopped  to  listen  instinctively,  thinking  per 
haps  to  catch  some  sound  that  would  guide  them  back 
to  town.  But  only  the  heavy  silence  of  the  out-of- 
doors  met  their  ears.  They  must  have  come  upon  one 
of  the  hilly  sections  south  of  Iron  City,  but  they  could 
not  determine  now  which  was  south  and  which  was 
north.  To  make  matters  worse,  a  shifting  wind  swept 
a  heavy  mist,  almost  like  rain,  across  the  world,  blot 
ting  out  all  common  objects,  and  bathing  the  land 
scape  in  mystery.  They  suddenly  found  themselves  in 
a  sublime  world  of  vast  shadowy  proportions,  unfa- 
miliarity  and  soft  sounds. 

Sarah  laughed  nervously.  "How  vexing,"  she  ex 
claimed,  "I  believe  we're  lost." 

"I've  known  that  for  the  last  half-hour,"  Cosmus 
admitted.  "Funny — we  can't  be  two  miles  from  the 
city,  and  yet  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  find  a  path  out 
of  this  pocket  of  hills." 

"It  won't  be  so  funny  if  we  have  to  wait  until  morn 
ing,"  and  Sarah  made  an  effort  to  laugh. 

He  tried  to  see  her  through  the  mist.  All  he  could 
discern  was  a  shadowy  form,  very  opaque,  without 
any  distinct  features.  He  did  not  answer,  but  he  re 
doubled  his  efforts  to  devise  a  way  of  regaining  their 
bearings.  Once  when  they  stumbled  down  a  path, 
they  found  themselves  ankle  deep  in  water. 

"We  must  keep  walking,"  he  whispered.  "Are  you 
cold?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  but  he  could  feel  her 
shiver. 

As  they  threshed  about  in  the  mist,  up  hill  and 


IRON  CITY  307 

down,  they  were  aware  suddenly  of  a  great  light 
dawning  in  their  faces.  It  permeated  the  mist,  made 
radiant  the  dreary,  dripping  world,  for  all  reality  like 
a  rising  sun.  Some  dread  took  hold  of  them  for  a 
moment;  though  not  superstitious,  they  felt  the  shud 
der  all  men  feel  at  the  sight  of  the  supernatural.  Spell 
bound,  they  watched;  then  they  saw  and  understood. 
What  thrilled  them  so  mysteriously  was  only  the  head 
light  of  a  common  interurban  car.  But  was  it  going  to 
or  coming  from  Iron  City?  After  a  debate,  they  de 
cided  that  it  was  going  to  the  city  and  they  made  off 
in  that  direction. 

Feeling  relieved  at  the  prospect  of  finding  their 
way  home,  they  threw  off  all  concern,  and  raced  along 
hand  in  hand  like  children.  Wet  branches  of  low 
trees  beat  their  faces,  and  they  found  themselves 
pushed  together  as  they  twisted  and  turned  to  avoid 
this  rock  or  that  clump  of  bushes.  Suddenly,  without 
warning,  Cosmus  took  Sarah  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  again  and  again. 

Then  he  half-flung,  half-pushed  her  from  him,  for 
he  found  her  stiff  and  unyielding  in  his  embrace,  her 
mouth  turned  from  his,  her  bosom  heaving  with  sobs. 

"God,"  he  cried,  "I  hate  you." 

He  half -staggered,  half-ran  in  the  opposite  direc 
tion,  anywhere  to  be  rid  of  her.  Sarah  heard  him 
stumbling  through  the  bushes,  dislodging  stones  as  he 
went;  then  she  heard  a  sound  as  if  he  had  fallen,  and 
what  sounded  like  a  groan. 

"John,  John,"  she  called,  "Come  back." 

No  answer.  She  cautiously  felt  her  way  after  him, 
came  to  a  ledge,  let  herself  down  carefully,  feet  first, 
and  landed  beside  him  where  he  lay. 

She  leaned  over  him,  and  spoke  his  name.    At  first 


So8  IRON  CITY 

he  did  not  answer.  And  before  he  did — in  that  fleet 
ing  moment — something  happened  to  Sarah  Black- 
stone. 

All  the  old  weight  of  loss  and  longing,  wistful  dis 
appointment,  fled  and  she  knew  peace.  There  was 
something  infinitely  good  in  being  here,  in  the  still 
dark,  dripping  night,  bending  over  him.  New  life 
stirred;  something  dead  broke  from  her  and  slipped 
away.  A  great  current  of  Life  pinned  her  to  the 
ground,  made  her  a  part  of  the  growing  things,  and 
the  deep,  maternal  earth.  She  seemed  to  be  opening 
door  after  door  of  meaning.  She  was  enfolded  by  the 
presence  of  her  mother  and  for  the  first  time  she  un 
derstood  the  wild  out-reaching  passion  of  her  mother's 
death-bed  letter.  It  was  as  if  she  were  her  mother. 
Her  mind  went  joyously  free,  rollicking  among  child 
hood  memories — old  orchard  days,  hollyhocks  and 
pansies,  and  dolls — had  she  ever  played  with  dolls? 
It  was  as  if  she  had  known  nothing  else  as  a  child  but 
dolls,  for  she  felt  tearing  at  her  bosom  the  old  ecstasy 
of  early  girlhood  in  mothering  dolls. 

She  reached  down  and  began  to  rub  John's  hands; 
she  bent  over  and  kissed  him.  He  did  not  stir  or 
speak. 

She  tried  to  bring  her  mind  back  to  the  present,  to 
understand  the  seriousness  of  the  silly  predicament  in 
which  they  found  themselves ;  lost  within  a  mile  of  the 
city,  in  the  cold  and  rain,  the  possibility  of  an  all-night 
vigil,  her  reputation  gone,  and  John  hurt.  But  in 
that  first  moment  before  he  spoke,  all  these  considera 
tions  were  brushed  aside,  and  she  only  knew  that  it 
was  well  with  her.  She  was  saying,  "That  kiss  has 
made  him  mine.  I  am  alive.  I  am  happy.  There  is 


IRON  CITY  309 

no  death,  war  or  grief.  Life  is  entrancing.  I  shall 
go  on  opening  happy  doors  forever." 

Something  had  indeed  happened  to  Sarah  Black- 
stone. 

Then  John  said  heavily,  "It's  my  leg,  I  think." 

"Can  you  stand?" 

She  helped  him  to  his  feet,  but  the  minute  she  with 
drew  her  support,  he  was  down  on  his  knees  again 
with  a  groan. 

"You  must  leave  me  and  go  back  for  help,"  he  said. 

"Listen,"  Sarah  exclaimed,  "isn't  that  the  bark  of  a 
dog?" 

Somewhere  not  far  distant  over  the  hill  a  hound  was 
baying.  She  called  loudly  several  times,  vainly.  For 
a  bad  three  minutes  she  was  afraid  she  had  silenced 
the  dog,  but  again  they  heard  its  welcome  baying. 

"We  must  follow  it,"  she  said.     "Come." 

She  took  his  arm  and  drew  it  over  her  shoulder,  and 
together,  slowly  and  painfully  they  skirted  the  bowlder 
in  front  of  them  and  scrambled  up  the  hill.  It  was 
painful  work  for  John.  It  was  pleasure  for  Sarah. 
She  never  flinched  when  he  stumbled  and  threw  his 
whole  weight  upon  her.  She  stood  up  tremblingly, 
but  strong.  Now  and  then  they  paused  to  rest,  or  to 
wait  for  the  dog's  howl.  Over  hill  and  hillock  until, 
when  they  had  climbed  the  highest  hill  of  all,  they 
came  suddenly  upon  a  little  house  and  barn.  There 
was  no  light.  The  dog's  bark  changed  to  snarls. 
Sarah  could  see  the  beast  bristling  and  fierce  against 
the  wall  of  mist.  She  was  afraid  to  go  in.  She  called 
out,  as  she  remembered  girls  did  in  books. 

"Hello,  the  house !     Help." 

After  repeated  calls,  a  dim  light  flickered  at  a  win 
dow,  and  the  back  door  cautiously  opened.  Sarah  ex- 


310  IRON  CITY 

plained  quickly  that  Mr.  Cosmus  was  hurt,  and  that 
they  needed  a  carriage  to  get  back  to  Iron  City. 

"Tain't  far,"  said  the  man.  "Wait  till  I  get  my 
shoes  on." 

He  came  out  in  a  few  minutes  with  a  lantern,  and 
hitched  an  old  horse  to  a  family  carriage.  He  was 
gruff  but  not  unkind,  and  gently  helped  Cosmus  into 
the  back  seat. 

"Will  you  ride  with  me,  Missy,  in  front?" 

Sarah  answered  simply,  "He  may  need  me,"  and 
climbed  in  beside  Cosmus. 

The  farmer  clucked  to  his  mare,  the  carriage  rattled 
forth,  through  the  barnyard,  out  of  the  gate,  down  a 
long,  dark  lane,  and  then  upon  a  road  they  both  knew. 
Lights  flickered  now  before  them,  danced  in  their 
mist-blurred  vision,  and  soon  they  caught  the  sound  of 
the  city.  They  did  not  talk.  Cosmus  was  in  pain. 
Once  he  said: 

"It's  broken,  I  guess,"  referring  to  his  leg. 

Then  he  ignored  the  pain  and  his  companion.  He 
lay  back  thinking,  "I've  been  a  fool,  that's  all;  this 
is  the  end." 

And  Sarah  was  thinking,  "This  is  only  the  begin 
ning;  it  will  go  on  like  this  forever.  I'll  tell  him  to 
morrow." 

And  so  they  came  to  the  hospital. 

But  the  next  morning,  in  the  glaring  daylight,  Sarah 
found  it  harder  to  tell  than  she  had  thought.  The 
whole  affair  looked  different.  If  she  had  followed 
her  desire,  she  would  have  gone  to  Cosmus,  and 
begged  to  nurse  him  as  her  right. 

But  the  world  of  broad  daylight  is  not  the  world  of 
romance;  reason  entered,  and  convention.  She  tele 
phoned  to  the  hospital,  cried  a  little  when  she  learned 


IRON  CITY  311 

that  his  leg  was  broken;  sent  him  flowers,  wrote  him 
pretty,  stiff  little  notes.  But  in  the  days  that  followed 
she  did  not  see  Cosmus,  or  hear  from  him.  Although 
she  had  found  love,  she  began  to  wonder  whether  she 
had  not  found  it  too  late. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

GROPING  in  the  debatable  lands  of  experience, 
John  Cosmus  d,uring  the  weeks  that  parsed, 
while  he  was  convalescing,  knew  the  bitterest  failure. 
He  had  come  to  a  point  in  his  career,  he  vaguely  real 
ized,  where  events  come  in  full  cycle,  but  within  or 
without  himself  he  could  get  no  new  impetus  forward. 
Sunk  in  deep  negation,  nothing  made  any  difference. 
He  was  like  one  set  adrift  in  an  open  boat,  too  loyal  to 
life  to  leap  to  death  into  the  black  waters,  too  passive 
to  raise  a  signal  of  distress  for  safety.  He  lay  for 
hours  in  his  bed  in  the  hospital,  still  and  calm,  and 
even  flippant,  but  never  enkindled,  never  himself.  The 
accident,  which  had  enforced  this  idleness,  seemed  to 
him  the  last  affront  from  a  particularly  enigmatic  and 
malevolent  world.  And  like  many  another  modern 
in  this  era  of  stress,  he  had  erected  a  shell  of  stoicism 
about  a  nature  perhaps  over-ardent  and  sensitive,  and 
was  playing  the  snail. 

To  be  sure,  at  the  seat  of  all  this  trouble  was  Sarah. 
If  he  had  had  her,  he  argued,  the  rest  would  have 
been  bearable.  Studiously  avoiding  sentiment,  he  still 
was  forced  to  admit  that  she  was  necessary  to  his  hap 
piness.  Together,  they  might  have  ignored  the  world 
and  built  an  ivory  tower  above  and  beyond  all  this 
stress.  .  .  .  But  he  was  without  her.  That  was  the 
end. 

At  this  time  Cosmus's  world  was  walled  around  by 
the  lurid  fires  of  war.  War  was  the  most  real  reality 

312 


IRON  CITY  313 

of  his  life — as  it  was  all  men's.  And  he,  like  so  many 
men  with  broken  anchor,  was  being  held  firm  by  the 
routine  of  common  work. 

But  not  for  long;  one  day  after  he  had  been  in  the 
hospital  a  couple  of  weeks,  he  received  a  note  from 
President  Crandon.  He  wrote: 

Dear  Mr.  Cosmus: 

Please  accept  regrets  from  me  in  behalf  of  the  whole 
college.  I  am  sure  you  have  been  missed  from  your  ac 
customed  place. 

It  is  my  unpleasant  duty  to  inform  you,  however,  that 
the  trustees  are  forced  to  dispense  with  your  services 
henceforth,  due  to  certain  retrenchments  revealed  as 
necessary  at  the  close  of  the  last  fiscal  year.  Your  salary 
will  be  continued  until  you  are  out  again. 

Believe  me, 

Sincerely  yours, 

HUGH  CRANDON. 

This  letter  evoked  only  derisive  laughter  from  Cos 
mus.  He  was  now,  he  told  himself,  practically  cut  off 
from  all  human  society,  for  the  newspaper — drab 
thing — united  him  only  with  war. 

So  days  passed  in  which  his  mind  lay  fallow,  and 
his  heart  was  torn  by  pain. 

One  April  morning  he  had  a  visitor.  Much  to  his 
surprise,  Samuel  Curtis,  sad  and  dim,  bobbed  in 
through  the  door. 

"Glad  to  see  you  gitting  along  so  well,  Professor. 
You'll  be  out  soon  ?" 

"I  could  go  out  now,  I  suppose,"  Cosmus  answered, 
"but,  you  see,"  and  he  spoke  somewhat  bitterly,  "my 
salary  stops  when  I  go  out,  so  I  guess  I'll  just  keep 
this  room,  and  bunk  here  for  life."  Then,  seeing  the 


IRON  CITY 

perplexity  on  his  caller's  face,  he  continued :  "You 
see,  I'm  fired,  Mr.  Curtis;  you  were  right;  I'm  not 
fit  to  teach  on  Crandon  Hill's  faculty." 

Curtis  was  not  disturbed  by  this  earnest  exposition. 
His  eyes  merely  shifted  from  the  table  to  the  window. 

"Pretty  day.  You  ought  to  be  out — would  do  you 
good.  Suppose  I  hitch  up  the  old  mare,  and  bring 
him  around  to  the  door.  You  can  drive  out  alone, 
if  you  want  to." 

Cosmus's  mind  leaped  back  to  that  September  day 
four  years  before  when  he  had  arrived  in  Iron  City. 
There  came  to  him  in  a  flash  all  the  aims  and  hopes 
and  dreams  which  he  had  had  then  and  which  were 
now  shattered  and  gone,  and  he  was  smitten  with 
fear  and  pain;  fear  that  the  world  was  but  a  mad 
place,  and  pain  at  his  failures.  To  himself  more  than 
to  Curtis,  he  said : 

"Has  it  been  four  years  since  I  rode  behind  the  old 
mare?  My  God,  and  Iron  City  has  not  changed  one 
bit." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  has — much,"  Curtis  answered  quickly. 

"You  mean,  it's  bigger  and  richer?" 

Curtis  did  not  answer  directly,  and  in  the  silence 
that  intervened  a  joyous  bird-note  floated  into  the 
room,  and  charmed  away  all  sadness. 

"Say,"  Curtis  said  finally,  "that  Walt  Kuhns  wasn't 
such  a  bad  fellow,  was  he?" 

Was  that  the  old  man's  answer?  It  was  mighty 
decent  of  him  to  have  come  in,  anyhow. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Curtis,"  John  said,  "I  never  held 
it  against  you  that  you  put  me  into  the  street." 

Curtis  did  not  answer  at  once.     Instead  he  said, 

"Will  you  go  for  a  ride,  Professor?  The  mare's 
outside  now." 


IRON  CITY  315 

"Outside  now  ?    Why  not  go  ?    Why  fester  in  bed  ?" 

"Surely,  I'll  go,"  Cosmus  spoke  heartily. 

Crutches  were  brought  and  he  limped  down  after 
his  lugubrious  caller.  They  emerged  from  the  dismal 
hospital.  April!  with  rich  earth  scents,  feathery 
leaves,  broad  sunshine,  and  vibrant  currents  of  hope 
in  the  air.  Cosmus  gulped  the  freshness  in  greedily. 
Then  he  saw  who  was  in  the  Curtis  phaeton  holding 
the  lines  over  the  broad  back  of  the  old  red  mare. 
Sarah ! 

Slowly  it  dawned  upon  him.  She  had  sent  Samuel 
Curtis  and  she  had  come  for  him  then.  Perhaps, 
perhaps?  He  allowed  Curtis  to  help  him  into  the 
phaeton  and  as  in  a  dream,  he  and  Sarah  drove  down 
the  shadowy  street,  out  the  sleepy  road.  The  world 
seemed  a  very  decent  place  to  live  in. 

They  drove  in  silence.  Black  birds  tinkled  in  downy 
covert,  farmers  were  turning  heavy  furrows  in  the 
fields ;  pigs  grunted,  roosters  crowed  in  the  barnyards ; 
the  soil  awaited  the  seed;  and  over  the  hills  and  fields 
glinted  the  River  of  Wires.  Once  again  he  felt  con 
tact  with  the  general  life;  and  he  knew  this  common 
sight  as  America,  his  Country. 

"Stop  a  minute,  Sarah,  won't  you?"  he  said  finally. 
"There  on  the  hill.  For  the  first  time,  I  know  what 
those  wires  are  saying.  All  my  life  long  they  have 
been  teasing  me  to  guess  their  meaning.  Now  I 
know.  How  simple.  They  mean  this,  There  are  no 
races,  nor  countries,  only  brotherhoods  of  men.  We 
unite  the  world.  Shall  it  be  slave  or  free?'  Think  of 
that,  it's  the  old  fight,  ever  the  old  fight." 

Sarah  turned  the  mare's  head  into  a  flowery  lane. 
He  was  half -sorry  that  he  had  broken  the  silence,  for 


316  IRON  CITY 

he  feared  she  might  vanish  before  his  eyes.  He 
asked, 

"Where  are  we  going?"  fearful  lest  they  be  going 
home. 

"To  my  Symphony." 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  remember;  then  he  re 
called  that  other  day  long  ago  when  they  seemed  to 
have  entered  a  child-like  world  guilelessly,  and  had 
found  each  other  there.  He  turned  toward  her 
eagerly. 

"Sarah!" 

"Wait,"  she  said,  "I  hurt  you  very  mucli  that  night 
when  you  broke  your  leg,  didn't  I?" 

"Let's  not  think  of  that  now." 

"Let's  talk  it  out,  John,  first,  while  we  can.  That's 
always  been  the  trouble  with  us.  Our  tongues  have 
been  so  awkward." 

"What  is  there  to  say?    I  love  you." 

"It's  been  my  fault  all  along,"  she  answered,  trying 
to  recover  the  reins  that  had  dropped  from  her  hands 
when  John  had  taken  them;  "you  see,  it  was  my 
bringing  up,  I  guess.  I  was  locked  so  into  myself.  I 
was  not  complete,  whole,  I  never  could  give  myself 
to  any  one.  I  drove  you  off.  Sidney  Haynes  was 
just  another  part  of  my  loneliness.  I  made  him  up. 
He  existed  as  a  mythical  love." 

How  sad,  John  thought. 

"And  then,  that  night  when  you  broke  your  leg, 
it  seemed  as  if  I  had  changed."  She  paused.  "John," 
she  added  decisively,  "it  was  as  if  all  at  once  I  had 
found  my  body  at  last,  had  found  the  joy  of  living, 
had  found  life."  She  turned  to  him  slowly,  her  face 
suddenly  shy  for  all  its  radiance.  "I  love  you,"  she 


IRON  CITY  317 

said  breathlessly.  And  he  took  her  in  his  arms  at 
last 

They  rode  for  a  long  time  together,  and  saw  the  de 
scending  sun  tint  the  half -a  wakened  earth  with  beauty, 
until  at  last  the  long  beams  shattered  themselves 
against  the  mystery  of  dark-blue  woods,  and  a  tender 
twilight,  upon  whose  bosom  a  young  moon  fluttered, 
fell  like  a  lullaby  over  the  land. 

They  found  still  roads  where  no  hint  of  other  hu 
man  souls  penetrated;  little  private  roadways,  theirs 
alone,  down  which  the  old  horse  seemed  to  trot  de 
lightedly.  Sometimes  like  all  lovers  they  did  not 
speak  in  words  for  minutes;  but  mostly  they  talked 
passionately  together;  of  life,  love,  experiences,  and 
dreams,  each  trying  to  impart  to  the  other  something 
which  grew  more  inarticulate  at  each  word. 

Once  as  the  road  skirted  a  wood  and  mounted  an 
upland,  they  looked  down  upon  a  valley  where  waters 
twinkled  through  white  mists,  and  impenetrable 
shadows  lay.  Something  formless,  even  abysmal,  in 
the  prospect  struck  in  them  a  mood  of  wonder.  It 
was  as  if  they  looked  upon  the  twilight  of  a  world- 
dawn,  upon  the  first  creation,  they,  the  first  man  and 
woman.  Perception  awakened  in  John. 

In  that  moment  he  seemed  to  become  a  part  of  the 
race  as  it  had  been  and  is  and  was  to  be.  And  he 
knew  himself  a  part  of  all  Life.  He  drew  Sarah  to 
him  passionately, 

"You  will  want  children,  Sarah?"  he  asked. 

"Will  I!"  she  answered.     "Oh,  John!" 

A  moment  later  the  horse  drew  the  phaeton  around 
a  turn  in  the  road  and  they  caught  the  sound  of  the 
city,  until  this  moment  unheard.  Sarah  could  not 
restrain  a  shudder.  She  thought  of  the  children  which! 


318  IRON  CITY 

were  to  come,  and  of  the  world  of  cruelty  in  which 
they  were  to  have  their  life.  Even  he,  as  he  heard  the 
undertone  of  trade,  felt  return  upon  him  the  weari 
ness  of  the  morning,  the  pain,  the  impotency  and  de 
spair.  Why  deceive  themselves  by  the  romance  of 
love? 

Whither  sped  the  old  world  while  they,  with  young 
hearts,  clattered  along  in  an  antique  shay  of  another 
generation?  Whither  drove  they?  This  they  knew 
as  they  sat  with  clasped  hands;  that  it  was  into  a  tur 
bulent  world.  And  they  were  sad.  For  them  there 
were  just  two  facts :  the  perennial  wrongness  of  cruelty 
and  greed,  and  the  eternal  Tightness  of  love. 

Oh,  if  they  could  only  know  to  whose  hand  the  fu 
ture  would  be  committed! 


FINIS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


SEP 


Form  L9-Series  444 


LIBRARY  FACILITY 


m  v-\/"\  '  | 


